, 


//*  t.  rfc 


/ 


THE      OPEN      AIR 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


RICHARD    JEFFERIES 

AUTHOR      OF 

1  NATURE   NEAR    LONDON,"   "THE   LIFE   OF  THE 
FIELDS,"   ETC. 


WITH    INTRODUCTION    BY 

THOMAS    COKE    WATKINS 


NEW     YORK 
THOMAS    Y.   CROWELL   &   CO. 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1907, 
BY  THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  Co. 


UNIVERSITY   PRESS,   CAMBRIDGE.   U.  8.  A. 


CONTENTS 


SAINT  GUIDO j 

GOLDEN-BROWN 30 

WILD  FLOWERS 38 

SUNNY  BRIGHTON 62 

THE  PINE  WOOD        85 

NATURE  ON  THE  ROOF 98 

ONE  OF  THE  NEW  VOTERS 113 

THE  MODERN  THAMES 135 

THE  SINGLE-BARREL  GUN 167 

THE  HAUNT  OF  THE  HARE 172 

THE  BATHING  SEASON 179 

UNDER  THE  ACORNS 199 

DOWNS 211 

FOREST 220 

BEAUTY  IN  THE  COUNTRY 229 

OUT  OF  DOORS  IN  FEBRUARY 244 

HAUNTS  OF  THE  LAPWING 261 

OUTSIDE  LONDON 272 

ON  THE  LONDON  ROAD 297 

RED  ROOFS  OF  LONDON 305 

A  WET  NIGHT  IN  LONDON       .     .     .     .,.     .     .  311 


INTRODUCTION 


LL  things  seem  possible  in  the  open  air." 
In  these  few  words  we  have  an  epitome 
of  Jefferies'  philosophy  of  Nature. 
To  write  as  he  has  written,  to  be 
confident  of  Nature  and  to  share  the  secrets  of  her 
penetralia,  requires  more  than  the  mere  power  of 
observation,  however  acute,  or  a  life  of  reclusion, 
however  remote.  It  necessitates  a  love  of  out-of- 
door  life,  as  fond,  as  passionate,  as  devoted  as  that 
of  lover  for  his  mistress.  It  calls  for  close  com- 
munion with  the  earth  and  sky,  at  all  hours  and  in 
all  seasons  ;  not  only  during  the  gleam  of  summer 
sunshine,  but  amid  frost  and  snow.  "  So  it  has 
ever  been  to  me,"  he  tells  us,  "  by  day  or  night, 
summer  or  winter;  beneath  the  trees  the  heart  feels 
nearer  to  that  depth  of  life  which  the  far  sky  means. 
The  rest  of  spirit  found  only  in  beauty,  ideal  and 
pure,  comes  there  because  the  distance  seems 
within  touch  of  thought.  To  the  heaven  thought 
can  reach,  lifted  up  by  the  ascent  of  the  flame-shaped 
fir.  Round  the  spruce  the  blue  was  deepened,  con- 
centrated by  the  fixed  point  j  the  memory  of  that 


INTRODUCTION       g-~.org  ~^ae 

spot,  as  it  were,  of  the  sky  is  still  fresh  —  I  can  see 
it  distinctly  —  still  beautiful  and  full  of  meaning. 
It  is  painted  in  bright  colour  in  my  mind,  colour 
thrice  laid,  and  indeljble;  as  one  passes  a  shrine 
and  bows  the  head  to  the  Madonna,  so  I  recall  the 
picture  and  stoop  in  spirit  to  the  aspiration  it  yet 
arouses.  For  there  is  no  saint  like  the  sky,  sun- 
light shining  from  its  face." 

It  was  when  Jefferies  lived  in  the  open  air  as  the 
young  Wiltshire  yeoman,  wholly  unconscious  of 
the  momentous  influence  these  early  Nature  studies 
were  exerting  on  his  character  and  life,  that  he 
gained  the  valuable  material  for  these  essays.  This 
education,  he  tells  us,  must  be  sought  direct  from 
Nature.  "  All  of  you  with  little  children,  who 
have  no  need  to  count  expense,  or  even  if  you  have 
such  need,  take  them  somehow  into  the  country 
among  green  grass  and  yellow  wheat,  among  the 
trees,  by  hills  and  streams,  if  you  wish  their  highest 
education,  that  of  the  heart  and  soul,  to  be  accom- 
plished. Therein  shall  they  find  a  Secret  —  a 
knowledge  not  to  be  written,  not  to  be  found  in 
books.  They  shall  know  the  sun  and  the  wind, 
the  running  water,  and  the  breast  of  the  broad  earth. 
Under  the  green  spray,  among  the  hazel-  boughs 
where  the  nightingale  sings,  they  shall  find  a  Secret, 
a  feeling,  a  sense  that  fills  the  heart  with  an  emo- 
tion never  to  be  forgotten.  They  will  forget  the 
— viii  — 


INTRODUCTION 

books  —  they  will  never  forget  the  grassy  fields. 
If  you  wish  your  children  to  think  deep  things, 
to  know  the  holiest  emotions,  take  them  to  the 
woods  and  hills,  and  give  them  the  freedom  of 
the  meadows." 

And  he  illustrates  this  most  beautifully  in  the 
opening  chapter  of  this  volume.  It  begins  with  a 
child  story,  a  fairy  tale  which,  like  The  Water 
Babies,  holds  thought  and  charm  for  children  of 
a  larger  growth.  "  Saint  Guido  ran  out  at  the 
garden  gate  into  a  sandy  lane,  and  down  the  lane 
until  he  came  to  a  grassy  bank."  They  called  him 
Guido  because  "  they  thought  if  a  great  painter 
could  be  a  little  boy,  then  he  would  be  something 
like  this  one."  And  he  was  Saint  Guido  because 
his  golden  curls  made  a  halo  round  his  brow.  He 
runs  away  to  a  wheatfield,  where  he  talks  as  a 
comrade  to  the  birds  and  bees,  the  cornflowers  and 
the  May-weed.  The  fern  had  taught  him  a  secret — 
if  you  want  to  hear  what  the  grass  and  the  wheat 
say,  you  must  be  careful  not  to  interfere  with  any  of 
the  things  of  the  field.  Remembering  this,  Guido 
stopped  chasing  a  butterfly,  and,  lying  down  in  the 
grass,  he  whispered,  "  Rush,  rush,  tell  them  I  am 
here."  Then  the  nearest  wheat-ear  talks  to  him  of 
what  it  has  been  thinking,  talks  in  wise,  wonderful 
fashion  of  the  problems  of  labour  and  poverty,  and 
weaves  a  poem  and  a  sermon  into  one. 
—  ix  — 


INTRODUCTION 

Turn  over  a  few  pages  and  read  the  essay  on 
"Wild  Flowers."  "Bathed  in  buttercups  to  the 
dewlap,  the  roan  cows  standing  in  the  golden  lake 
watched  the  hours  with  calm  frontlet;  watched  the 
light  descending,  the  meadows  filling,  with  knowl- 
edge of  long  months  of  succulent  clover."  "  Of 
all  things  there  is  none  so  sweet  as  sweet  air  —  one 
great  flower  it  is,  drawn  around,  about,  over,  and 
inclosing,  like  Aphrodite's  arms ;  as  if  the  dome  of 
the  sky  were  a  bellflower  drooping  down  over  us, 
and  the  magical  essence  filling  all  the  room  of  the 
earth.  Sweetest  of  all  things  is  wild-flower  air." 

And  again  we  find  him  writing  of  "  Red  Roofs  of 
London  "  and  other  familiar  themes.  "  It  is  much 
to  be  regretted,"  observes  Mr.  Salt,  in  his  Study  of 
Jefferies,  "  that  he  did  not  write  more  in  that  vein? 
but  the  reason  is  obvious  —  he  was  compelled  for 
the  most  part  to  defer  to  the  wishes  of  editors  and 
publishers  in  the  selections  of  his  subjects,  and  the 
country  was  found  to  yield  a  better  profit  than  the 
town." 

Most  of  these  papers  were  written  during 
1882-4,  and  were  originally  contributed  to  the 
English  magazines. 

No  one  ever  lived,  I  believe,  unless  it  were 
Wordsworth,  who  took  greater  delight  in  the  mere 
beauty  of  Nature.  "Never  yet,"  he  tells  us,  "have 
I  been  able  to  write  what  I  felt  about  the  sunlight 


INTRODUCTION 


only.  Colour  and  form  and  light  are  as  magic  to 
me.  It  is  a  trance."  But  more  than  Wordsworth 
he  is  the  true  Laureate  of  the  English  country- 
side. Although  he  never  had  the  spiritual  insight 
and  elevation  of  Wordsworth,  never  rose  "  through 
Nature  up  to  Nature's  God,"  yet  Nature  was  his 
teacher.  He  was  the  child  who  spoke  in  the  music 
of  the  falling  water,  the  sweetness  of  the  meadow 
and  the  flower,  and  he  heeded  not,  he  knew  not, 
that  there  was  separation  between  them  and  the  joy 
of  animal  life,  the  freshness  of  youth.  They  were 
all  parts  of  one  whole,  harmoniously  blended. 
Wordsworth  accepted  the  past,  its  wisdom,  its 
experience;  he  added  to  his  poet's  gift  a  deep  sense 
of  the  divinity  and  unity  of  the  animate  and  the 
inanimate  :  while  Jefferies  is  content  to  pour  out 
his  ardent,  simple,  pure  love  for 

«« The  warm  woods,  the  sunny  hills,  and  fresh  green 

fields  — 

And  mountains  not  less  green,  and  flocks  and  herds, 
And  thickets  full  of  songsters,  and  the  voice  of  lordly 

birds,  an  unexpected  sound 

Heard  now  and  then  from  morn  to  latest  eve,  admon- 
ishing the  man  who  walks  below 
Of  solitude  and  silence  in  the  sky. 
These  have  we  and  a  thousand  nooks  of  earth  have 

also  these,  but  nowhere  else  is  found, 
Nowhere  (or  is  it  fancy?)  can  be  found  the  one  sen- 
sation that  is  here, 

—  xi  — 


INTRODUCTION 

Here  as  it  found  its  way  into  my  heart  in  childhood, 

here  as  it  abides  <by  day, 
By  night,  here  only;   or  in  chosen  minds  that  take 

it  with  them  hence,  where'er  they  go." 

After  all,  what  we  each  love  in  Nature  is  ourself, 
some  subtle  suggestion  of  the  human  spirit ;  and 
just  in  proportion  as  we  seek  beauty  and  light  and 
truth  will  we  possess  and  enjoy  all  the  wealth  of 
Jefferies'  great,  Nature-loving  soul. 

"  Dim  woodlands  made  him  wiser  far 

Than  those  who  thresh  their  barren  thought 
With  flails  of  knowledge  dearly  bought, 
Till  all  his  soul  shone  like  a  star 

That  flames  at  fringe  of  Heaven's  bar. 
Where  breaks  the  surf  of  space  unseen 
Against  Hope's  veil  that  lies  between 
Love's  future  and  the  woes  that  are. 

"His  soul  saw  through  the  weary  years  — 
Past  war-bells'  chimes  and  poor  men's  tears  — 

That  day  when  time  shall  bring  to  birth 
(By  many  a  heart  whose  hope  seems  vain, 
And  many  a  fight  where  Love  slays  Pain) 
True  Freedom,  come  to  reign  on  earth." 

T.  C.  W. 


—  xii  — 


THE      OPEN     AIR 

se^gg 
SAINT     GUIDO 


T.  GUIDO  ran  out  at  the  garden  gate  into 
a  sandy  lane,  and  down  the  lane  till  he  came 
to  a  grassy  bank.  He  caught  hold  of  the 
bunches  of  grass  and  so  pulled  himself  up. 
There  was  a  footpath  on  the  top  which  went  straight 
in  between  fir  trees,  and  as  he  ran  along  they  stood 
on  each  side  of  him  like  green  walls.  They  were 
very  near  together,  and  even  at  the  top  the  space 
between  them  was  so  narrow  that  the  sky  seemed 
to  come  down,  and  the  clouds  to  be  sailing  but  just 
over  them,  as  if  they  would  catch  and  tear  in  the 
fir  trees.  The  path  was  so  little  used  that  it  had 
grown  green,  and  as  he  ran  he  knocked  dead 
branches  out  of  his  way.  Just  as  he  was  getting 
tired  of  running  he  reached  the  end  of  the  path,  and 
came  out  into  a  wheatfield.  The  wheat  did  not 
grow  very  closely,  and  the  spaces  were  filled  with 
azure  cornflowers.  St.  Guido  thought  he  was  safe 
away  now,  so  he  stopped  to  look. 

Those  thoughts  and  feelings  which  are  not  sharply 
defined  but  have  a  haze  of  distance  and  beauty  about 


THE     OPEN     AIR 


them  are  always  the  dearest.  His  name  was  not 
really  Guido,  but  those  who  loved  him  had  called 
him  so  in  order  to  try  and  express  their  hearts  about 
him.  For  they  thought  if  a  great  painter  could  be 
a  little  boy,  then  he  would  be  something  like  this 
one.  They  were  not  very  learned  in  the  history 
of  painters  :  they  had  heard  of  Raphael,  but  Raphael 
was  too  elevated,  too  much  of  the  sky,  and  of  Titian, 
but  Titian  was  fond  of  feminine  loveliness,  and  in 
the  end  somebody  said  Guido  was  a  dreamy  name, 
as  if  it  belonged  to  one  who  was  full  of  faith. 
Those  golden  curls  shaking  about  his  head  as  he 
ran  and  filling  the  air  with  radiance  round  his  brow, 
looked  like  a  Nimbus  or  circlet  of  glory.  So  they 
called  him  St.  Guido,  and  a  very,  very  wild  saint 
he  was. 

St.  Guido  stopped  in  the  cornfield,  and  looked 
all  round.  There  were  the  fir  trees  behind  him  — 
a  thick  wall  of  green  —  hedges  on  the  right  and  the 
left,  and  the  wheat  sloped  down  towards  an  ash 
copse  in  the  hollow.  No  one  was  in  the  field,  only 
the  fir  trees,  the  green  hedges,  the  yellow  wheat, 
and  the  sun  overhead.  Guido  kept  quite  still, 
because  he  expected  that  in  a  minute  the  magic 
would  begin,  and  something  would  speak  to  him. 
His  cheeks,  which  had  been  flushed  with  running, 
grew  less  hot,  but  I  cannot  tell  you  the  exact  colour 
they  were,  for  his  skin  was  so  white  and  clear,  it 


SAINT     GUIDO 

would  not  tan  under  the  sun,  yet  being  always  out- 
of-doors  it  had  taken  the  faintest  tint  of  golden 
brown  mixed  with  rosiness.  His  blue  eyes,  which 
had  been  wide  open,  as  they  always  were  when 
full  of  mischief,  became  softer,  and  his  long  eye- 
lashes drooped  over  them.  But  as  the  magic  did 
not  begin,  Guido  walked  on  slowly  into  the  wheat, 
which  rose  nearly  to  his  head,  though  it  was  not 
yet  so  tall  as  it  would  be  before  the  reapers  came. 
He  did  not  break  any  of  the  stalks,  or  bend  them 
down  and  step  on  them ;  he  passed  between  them, 
and  they  yielded  on  either  side.  The  wheat-ears 
were  pale  gold,  having  only  just  left  off  their 
green,  and  they  surrounded  him  on  all  sides  as 
if  he  were  bathing. 

A  butterfly  painted  a  velvety  red  with  white 
spots  came  floating  along  the  surface  of  the  corn, 
and  played  round  his  cap,  which  was  a  little 
higher,  and  was  so  tinted  by  the  sun  that  the 
butterfly  was  inclined  to  settle  on  it.  Guido  put 
up  his  hand  to  catch  the  butterfly,  forgetting  his 
secret  in  his  desire  to  touch  it.  The  butterfly  was 
too  quick  —  with  a  snap  of  his  wings  disdainfully 
mocking  the  idea  of  catching  him,  away  he  went. 
Guido  nearly  stepped  on  a  humble-bee  —  buzz-zz  ! 
—  the  bee  was  so  alarmed  he  actually  crept  up 
Guide's  knickers  to  the  knee,  and  even  then 
knocked  himself  against  a  wheat-ear  when  he 
—  3  — 


THE     OPEN     AIR 


started  to  fly.  Guido  kept  quite  still  while  the 
humble-bee  was  on  his  knee,  knowing  that  he 
should  not  be  stung  if  he  did  not  move.  He 
knew,  too,  that  humble-bees  have  stings  though 
people  often  say  they  have  not,  and  the  reason 
people  think  they  do  not  possess  them  is  because 
humble-bees  are  so  good-natured  and  never  sting 
unless  they  are  very  much  provoked. 

Next  he  picked  a  corn  buttercup ;  the  flowers 
were  much  smaller  than  the  great  buttercups  which 
grew  in  the  meadows,  and  these  were  not  golden 
but  coloured  like  brass.  His  foot  caught  in  a 
creeper,  and  he  nearly  tumbled  —  it  was  a  bine  of 
bindweed  which  went  twisting  round  and  round 
two  stalks  of  wheat  in  a  spiral,  binding  them 
together  as  if  some  one  had  wound  string  about 
them.  There  was  one  ear  of  wheat  which  had 
black  specks  on  it,  and  another  which  had  so 
much  black  that  the  grains  seemed  changed  and 
gone,  leaving  nothing  but  blackness.  He  touched 
it,  and  it  stained  his  hands  like  a  dark  powder, 
and  then  he  saw  that  it  was  not  perfectly  black 
as  charcoal  is,  it  was  a  little  red.  Something  was 
burning  up  the  corn  there  just  as  if  fire  had  been 
set  to  the  ears.  Guido  went  on  and  found  another 
place  where  there  was  hardly  any  wheat  at  all,  and 
those  stalks  that  grew  were  so  short  they  only 
came  above  his  knee.  The  wheat-ears  were  thin 


SAINT     GUIDO 


and  small,  and  looked  as  if  there  was  nothing  but 
chaff.  But  this  place  being  open  was  full  of 
flowers,  such  lovely  azure  cornflowers  which  the 
people  call  bluebottles. 

Guido  took  two ;  they  were  curious  flowers 
with  knobs  surrounded  with  little  blue  flowers 
like  a  lady's  bonnet.  They  were  a  beautiful  blue, 
not  like  any  other  blue,  not  like  the  violets  in  the 
garden,  or  the  sky  over  the  trees,  or  the  geranium 
in  the  grass,  or  the  bird's-eyes  by  the  path.  He 
loved  them  and  held  them  tight  in  his  hand,  and 
went  on,  leaving  the  red  pimpernel  wide  open  to 
the  dry  air  behind  him,  but  the  May-weed  was 
everywhere.  The  May-weed  had  white  flowers 
like  a  moon-daisy,  but  not  so  large,  and  leaves  like 
moss.  He  could  not  walk  without  stepping  on 
these  mossy  tufts,  though  he  did  not  want  to  hurt 
them.  So  he  stooped  and  stroked  the  moss-like 
leaves  and  said,  "  I  do  not  want  to  hurt  you,  but 
you  grow  so  thick  I  cannot  help  it."  In  a  min- 
ute afterwards  as  he  was  walking  he  heard  a  quick 
rush,  and  saw  the  wheat-ears  sway  this  way  and 
that  as  if  a  puff  of  wind  had  struck  them.  ' 

Guido  stood  still  and  his  eyes  opened  very  wide, 
he  had  forgotten  to  cut  a  stick  to  fight  with :  he 
watched  the  wheat-ears  sway,  and  could  see  them 
move  for  some  distance,  and  he  did  not  know 
what  it  was.  Perhaps  it  was  a  wild  boar  or  a 
—  5  — 


gEESK     THE     OPEN     AIR 


yellow  lion,  or  some  creature  no  one  had  ever  seen; 
he  would  not  go  back,  but  he  wished  he  had  cut 
a  nice  stick.  Just  then  a  swallow  swooped  down 
and  came  flying  .pver  the  wheat  so  close  that 
Guido  almost  felt  the  flutter  of  his  wings,  and  as 
he  passed  he  whispered  to  Guido  that  it  was  only 
a  hare.  "  Then  why  did  he  run  away  ? "  said 
Guido  ;  "  I  should  not  have  hurt  him."  But  the 
swallow  had  gone  up  high  into  the  sky  again,  and 
did  not  hear  him.  All  the  time  Guido  was  de- 
scending the  slope,  for  little  feet  always  go  down 
the  hill  as  water  does,  and  when  he  looked  back 
he  found  that  he  had  left  the  fir  trees  so  far  behind 
he  was  in  the  middle  of  the  field.  If  any  one  had 
looked  they  could  hardly  have  seen  him,  and  if  he 
had  taken  his  cap  off  they  could  not  have  done 
so  because  the  yellow  curls  would  be  so  much 
the  same  colour  as  the  yellow  corn.  He  stooped 
to  see  how  nicely  he  could  hide  himself,  then  he 
knelt,  and  in  a  minute  sat  down,  so  that  the  wheat 
rose  up  high  above  him. 

Another  humble-bee  went  over  along  the  tips 
of  the  wheat  —  burr-rr  —  as  he  passed;  then  a 
scarlet  fly,  and  next  a  bright  yellow  wasp  who 
was  telling  a  friend  flying  behind  him  that  he 
knew  where  there  was  such  a  capital  piece  of 
wood  to  bite  up  into  tiny  pieces  and  make  into 
paper  for  the  nest  in  the  thatch,  but  his  friend 
_6  — 


CEE3C        SAINT      GUIDO        SE^s*jE=r^3g 


wanted  to  go  to  the  house  because  there  was  a 
pear  quite  ripe  there  on  the  wall.  Next  came  a 
moth,  and  after  the  moth  a  golden  fly,  and  three 
gnats,  and  a  mouse  ran  along  the  dry  ground  with 
a  curious  sniffling  rustle  close  to  Guido.  A  shrill 
cry  came  down  out  of  the  air,  and  looking  up  he 
saw  two  swifts  turning  circles,  and  as  they  passed 
each  other  they  shrieked  —  their  voices  were  so 
shrill  they  shrieked.  They  were  only  saying  that 
in  a  month  their  little  swifts  in  the  slates  would 
be  able  to  fly.  While  he  sat  so  quiet  on  the 
ground  and  hidden  by  the  wheat,  he  heard  a 
cuckoo  such  a  long  way  off  it  sounded  like  a 
watch  when  it  is  covered  up.  "  Cuckoo "  did 
not  come  full  and  distinct  —  it  was  such  a  tiny 
little  "  cuckoo  "  caught  in  the  hollow  of  Guide's 
ear.  The  cuckoo  must  have  been  a  mile  away. 

Suddenly  he  thought  something  went  over,  and 
yet  he  did  not  see  it  —  perhaps  it  was  the  shadow 
—  and  he  looked  up  and  saw  a  large  bird  not  very 
far  up,  not  farther  than  he  could  fling,  or  shoot 
his  arrows,  and  the  bird  was  fluttering  his  wings, 
but  did  not  move  away  farther,  as  if  he  had  been 
tied  in  the  air.  Guido  knew  it  was  a  hawk,  and 
the  hawk  was  staying  there  to  see  if  there  was 
a  mouse  or  a  little  bird  in  the  wheat.  After  a 
minute  the  hawk  stopped  fluttering  and  lifted  his 
wings  together  as  a  butterfly  does  when  he  shuts 


THE     OPEN     AIR 


his,  and  down  the  hawk  came,  straight  into  the 
corn.  "  Go  away  !  "  shouted  Guido,  jumping  up, 
and  flinging  his  cap,  and  the  hawk,  dreadfully 
frightened  and  terribly  cross,  checked  himself  and 
rose  again  with  an  angry  rush.  So  the  mouse 
escaped,  but  Guido  could  not  find  his  cap  for 
some  time.  Then  he  went  on,  and  still  the 
ground  sloping  sent  him  down  the  hill  till  he 
came  close  to  the  copse. 

Some  sparrows  came  out  from  the  copse,  and 
he  stopped  and  saw  one  of  them  perch  on  a  stalk 
of  wheat,  with  one  foot  above  the  other  sideways, 
so  that  he  could  pick  at  the  ear  and  get  the  corn. 
Guido  watched  the  sparrow  clear  the  ear,  then  he 
moved,  and  the  sparrows  flew  back  to  the  copse, 
where  they  chattered  at  him  for  disturbing  them. 
There  was  a  ditch  between  the  corn  and  the 
copse,  and  a  streamlet ;  he  picked  up  a  stone  and 
threw  it  in,  and  the  splash  frightened  a  rabbit, 
who  slipped  over  the  bank  and  into  a  hole.  The 
boughs  of  an  oak  reached  out  across  to  the  corn, 
and  made  so  pleasant  a  shade  that  Guido,  who 
was  very  hot  from  walking  in  the  sun,  sat  down 
on  the  bank  of  the  streamlet  with  his  feet  dangling 
over  it,  and  watched  the  floating  grass  sway  slowly 
as  the  water  ran.  Gently  he  leaned  back  till  his 
back  rested  on  the  sloping  ground  —  he  raised  one 
knee,  and  left  the  other  foot  over  the  verge  where 


SAINT     GUIDO 


the  tip  of  the  tallest  rushes  touched  it.  Before  he 
had  been  there  a  minute  he  remembered  the  secret 
which  a  fern  had  taught  him. 

First,  if  he  wanted  to  know  anything,  or  to 
hear  a  story,  or  what  the  grass  was  saying,  or 
the  oak  leaves  singing,  he  must  be  careful  not  to 
interfere  as  he  had  done  just  now  with  the  but- 
terfly by  trying  to  catch  him.  Fortunately,  that 
butterfly  was  a  nice  butterfly,  and  very  kind- 
hearted,  but  sometimes,  if  you  interfered  with  one 
thing,  it  would  tell  another  thing,  and  they  would 
all  know  in  a  moment,  and  stop  talking,  and  never 
say  a  word.  Once,  while  they  were  all  talking 
pleasantly,  Guido  caught  a  fly  in  his  hand,  he 
felt  his  hand  tickle  as  the  fly  stepped  on  it,  and 
he  shut  up  his  little  fist  so  quickly  he  caught  the 
fly  in  the  hollow  between  the  palm  and  his  fingers. 
The  fly  went  buzz,  and  rushed  to  get  out,  but 
Guido  laughed,  so  the  fly  buzzed  again,  and  just 
told  the  grass,  and  the  grass  told  the  bushes,  and 
everything  knew  in  a  moment,  and  Guido  never 
heard  another  word  all  that  day.  Yet  sometimes, 
now  they  all  knew  something  about  him,  they  would 
go  on  talking.  You  see,  they  all  rather  petted  and 
spoiled  him.  Next,  if  Guido  did  not  hear  them 
conversing,  the  fern  said  he  must  touch  a  little  piece 
of  grass  and  put  it  against  his  cheek,  or  a  leaf,  and 
kiss  it,  and  say,  "  Leaf,  leaf,  tell  them  I  am  here." 
—  9  — 


THE     OPEN     AIR 

Now,  while  he  was  lying  down,  and  the  tip  of 
the  rushes  touched  his  foot,  he  remembered  this, 
so  he  moved  the  rush  with  his  foot  and  said, 
"  Rush,  rush,  tell  .them  I  am  here."  Immediately 
there  came  a  little  wind,  and  the  wheat  swung  to 
and  fro,  the  oak  leaves  rustled,  the  rushes  bowed, 
and  the  shadows  slipped  forwards  and  back  again. 
Then  it  was  still,  and  the  nearest  wheat-ear  to 
Guido  nodded  his  head,  and  said  in  a  very  low 
tone,  "  Guido  dear,  just  this  minute  I  do  not  feel 
very  happy,  although  the  sunshine  is  so  warm,  be- 
cause I  have  been  thinking,  for  we  have  been  in 
one  or  other  of  these  fields  of  your  papa's  a  thou- 
sand years  this  very  year.  Every  year  we  have 
been  sown,  and  weeded,  and  reaped,  and  gar- 
nered. Every  year  the  sun  has  ripened  us,  and 
the  rain  made  us  grow ;  every  year  for  a  thousand 
years." 

"  What  did  you  see  all  that  time  ?  "  said  Guido. 

"  The  swallows  came,"  said  the  Wheat,  "  and 
flew  over  us,  and  sang  a  little  sweet  song,  and 
then  they  went  up  into  the  chimneys  and  built 
their  nests." 

"  At  my  house  ?  "  said  Guido. 

"  Oh,  no,  dear,  the  house  I  was  then  thinking 
of  is  gone,  like  a  leaf  withered  and  lost.  But  we 
have  not  forgotten  any  of  the  songs  they  sang  us, 
nor  have  the  swallows  that  you  see  to-day  —  one 

10  — 


SAINT     GUIDO 

of  them  spoke  to  you  just  now  —  forgotten  what 
we  said  to  their  ancestors.  Then  the  blackbirds 
came  out  in  us  and  ate  the  creeping  creatures,  so 
that  they  should  not  hurt  us,  and  went  up  into 
the  oaks  and  whistled  such  beautiful  sweet  low 
whistles.  Not  in  those  oaks,  dear,  where  the 
blackbirds  whistle  to-day ;  even  the  very  oaks 
have  gone,  though  they  were  so  strong  that  one 
of  them  defied  the  lightning,  and  lived  years  and 
years  after  it  struck  him.  One  of  the  very  oldest 
of  the  old  oaks  in  the  copse,  dear,  is  his  grand- 
child. If  you  go  into  the  copse  you  will  find  an 
oak  which  has  only  one  branch  ;  he  is  so  old,  he 
has  only  that  branch  left.  He  sprang  up  from 
an  acorn  dropped  from  an  oak  that  grew  from  an 
acorn  dropped  from  the  oak  the  lightning  struck. 
So  that  is  three  oak  lives,  Guido  dear,  back  to  the 
time  I  was  thinking  of  just  now.  And  that  oak 
under  whose  shadow  you  are  now  lying  is  the 
fourth  of  them,  and  he  is  quite  young,  though  he 
is  so  big. 

"  A  jay  sowed  the  acorn  from  which  he  grew 
up;  the  jay  was  in  the  oak  with  one  branch, 
and  some  one  frightened  him,  and  as  he  flew  he 
dropped  the  acorn  which  he  had  in  his  bill  just 
there,  and  now  you  are  lying  in  the  shadow  of  the 
tree.  So  you  see,  it  is  a  very  long  time  ago,  when 
the  blackbirds  came  and  whistled  up  in  those  oaks 


THE     OPEN     AIR 


I  was  thinking  of,  and  that  was  why  I  was  not 
very  happy." 

"  But  you  have  heard  the  blackbirds  whistling 
ever  since  ?  "  said,  Guido  ;  "  and  there  was  such 
a  big  black  one  up  in  our  cherry  tree  this  morn- 
ing, and  I  shot  my  arrow  at  him  and  very  nearly 
hit  him.  Besides,  there  is  a  blackbird  whistling 
now — you  listen.  There,  he's  somewhere  in  the 
copse.  Why  can't  you  listen  to  him,  and  be 
happy  now  ?  " 

"  I  will  be  happy,  dear,  as  you  are  here,  but  still 
it  is  a  long,  long  time,  and  then  I  think,  after  I 
am  dead,  and  there  is  more  wheat  in  my  place,  the 
blackbirds  will  go  on  whistling  for  another  thou- 
sand years  after  me.  For  of  course  I  did  not  hear 
them  all  that  time  ago  myself,  dear,  but  the  wheat 
which  was  before  me  heard  them  and  told  me. 
They  told  me,  too,  and  I  know  it  is  true,  that 
the  cuckoo  came  and  called  all  day  till  the  moon 
shone  at  night,  and  began  again  in  the  morning 
before  the  dew  had  sparkled  in  the  sunrise.  The 
dew  dries  very  soon  on  wheat,  Guido  dear,  be- 
cause wheat  is  so  dry ;  first  the  sunrise  makes 
the  tips  of  the  wheat  ever  so  faintly  rosy,  then 
it  grows  yellow,  then  as  the  heat  increases  it  be- 
comes white  at  noon,  and  golden  in  the  afternoon, 
and  white  again  under  the  moonlight.  Besides 
which  wide  shadows  come  over  from  the  clouds, 


SAINT     GUIDO 


and  a  wind  always  follows  the  shadow  and  waves 
us,  and  every  time  we  sway  to  and  fro  that  alters 
our  colour.  A  rough  wind  gives  us  one  tint,  and 
heavy  rain  another,  and  we  look  different  on  a 
cloudy  day  to  what  we  do  on  a  sunny  one.  All 
these  colours  changed  on  us  when  the  blackbird 
was  whistling  in  the  oak  the  lightning  struck,  the 
fourth  one  backwards  from  me ;  and  it  makes  me 
sad  to  think  that  after  four  more  oaks  have  gone, 
the  same  colours  will  come  on  the  wheat  that 
will  grow  then.  It  is  thinking  about  those  past 
colours,  and  songs,  and  leaves,  and  of  the  colours 
and  the  sunshine,  and  the  songs,  and  the  leaves 
that  will  come  in  the  future  that  makes  to-day  so 
much.  It  makes  to-day  a  thousand  years  long 
backwards,  and  a  thousand  years  long  forwards, 
and  makes  the  sun  so  warm,  and  the  air  so  sweet, 
and  the  butterflies  so  lovely,  and  the  hum  of  the 
bees,  and  everything  so  delicious.  We  cannot 
have  enough  of  it." 

"  No,  that  we  cannot,"  said  Guido.  "  Go  on, 
you  talk  so  nice  and  low.  I  feel  sleepy  and  jolly. 
Talk  away,  old  Wheat." 

u  Let  me  see,"  said  the  Wheat.  "  Once  on  a 
time  while  the  men  were  knocking  us  out  of  the 
ear  on  a  floor  with  flails,  which  are  sticks  with 
little  hinges " 

"  As  if  I  did  not  know  what  a  flail  was  !  "  said 


THE     OPEN     AIR 

Guido.  "I  hit  old  John  with  the  flail,  and  Ma 
gave  him  a  shilling  not  to  be  cross." 

"  While  they  were  knocking  us  with  the  hard 
sticks,"  the  Wheat  went  on,  "  we  heard  them 
talking  about  a  king  who  was  shot  with  an  arrow 
like  yours  in  the  forest  —  it  slipped  from  a  tree, 
and  went  into  him  instead  of  into  the  deer.  And 
long  before  that  the  men  came  up  the  river  —  the 
stream  in  the  ditch  there  runs  into  the  river  —  in 
rowing  ships  —  how  you  would  like  one  to  play 
in,  Guido !  For  they  were  not  like  the  ships 
now  which  are  machines,  they  were  rowing  ships 
—  men's  ships  —  and  came  right  up  into  the  land 
ever  so  far,  all  along  the  river  up  to  the  place 
where  the  stream  in  the  ditch  runs  in ;  just  where 
your  papa  took  you  in  the  punt,  and  you  got  the 
waterlilies,  the  white  ones." 

"  And  wetted  my  sleeve  right  up  my  arm  —  oh,  I 
know  !  I  can  row  you,  old  Wheat ;  I  can  row 
as  well  as  my  papa  can." 

11  But  since  the  rowing  ships  came,  the  ploughs 
have  turned  up  this  ground  a  thousand  times,"  said 
the  Wheat;  "and  each  time  the  furrows  smelt 
sweeter,  and  this  year  they  smelt  sweetest  of  all. 
The  horses  have  such  glossy  coats,  and  such 
fine  manes,  and  they  are  so  strong  and  beauti- 
ful. They  drew  the  ploughs  along  and  made 
the  ground  give  up  its  sweetness  and  savour,  and 
—  14  — 


SAINT     GUIDO 


while  they  were  doing  it,  the  spiders  in  the  copse 
spun  their  silk  along  from  the  ash  poles,  and  the 
mist  in  the  morning  weighed  down  their  threads. 
It  was  so  delicious  to  come  out  of  the  clods  as  we 
pushed  our  green  leaves  up  and  felt  the  rain,  and 
the  wind,  and  the  warm  sun.  Then  a  little  bird 
came  in  the  copse  and  called,  'Sip  —  sip,  sip,  sip, 
sip,'  such  a  sweet  low  song,  and  the  larks  ran 
along  the  ground  in  between  us,  and  there  were 
bluebells  in  the  copse,  and  anemones ;  till  by- 
and-by  the  sun  made  us  yellow,  and  the  blue 
flowers  that  you  have  in  your  hand  came  out.  I 
cannot  tell  you  how  many  there  have  been  of 
these  flowers  since  the  oak  was  struck  by  the  light- 
ning, in  all  the  thousand  years  there  must  have 
been  altogether —  I  cannot  tell  you  how  many." 

"  Why  did  n't  I  pick  them  all  ?  "  said  Guido. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  the  Wheat,  "  we  have 
thought  so  much  more,  and  felt  so  much  more, 
since  your  people  took  us,  and  ploughed  for  us, 
and  sowed  us,  and  reaped  us.  We  are  not  like 
the  same  wheat  we  used  to  be  before  your  people 
touched  us,  when  we  grew  wild,  and  there  were 
huge  great  things  in  the  woods  and  marshes  which 
I  will  not  tell  you  about  lest  you  should  be  fright- 
ened. Since  we  have  felt  your  hands,  and  you 
have  touched  us,  we  have  felt  so  much  more. 
Perhaps  that  was  why  I  was  not  very  happy  till 
—  is  — 


THE     OPEN     AIR 

you  came,  for  I  was  thinking  quite  as  much  about 
your  people  as  about  us,  and  how  all  the  flowers 
of  all  those  thousand  years,  and  all  the  songs,  and 
the  sunny  days  were  gone,  and  all  the  people  were 
gone  too,  who  had  heard  the  blackbirds  whistle  in 
the  oak  the  lightning  struck.  And  those  that  are 
alive  now  —  there  will  be  cuckoos  calling,  and  the 
eggs  in  the  thrush's  nests,  and  blackbirds  whistling, 
and  blue  cornflowers,  a  thousand  years  after  every 
one  of  them  is  gone. 

"  So  that  is  why  it  is  so  sweet  this  minute,  and 
why  I  want  you,  and  your  people,  dear,  to  be 
happy  now  and  to  have  all  these  things,  and  to 
agree  so  as  not  to  be  so  anxious  and  careworn,  but 
to  come  out  with  us,  or  sit  by  us,  and  listen  to  the 
blackbirds,  and  hear  the  wind  rustle  us,  and  be 
happy.  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  make  them  happy, 
and  do  away  with  all  their  care  and  anxiety,  and 
give  you  all  heaps  and  heaps  of  flowers  !  Don't 
go  away,  darling,  do  you  lie  still,  and  I  will  talk 
and  sing  to  you,  and  you  can  pick  some  more 
flowers  when  you  get  up.  There  is  a  beautiful 
shadow  there,  and  I  heard  the  streamlet  say  that 
he  would  sing  a  little  to  you ;  he  is  not  very  big, 
he  cannot  sing  very  loud.  By-and-by,  I  know, 
the  sun  will  make  us  as  dry  as  dry,  and  darker, 
and  then  the  reapers  will  come  while  the  spiders 
are  spinning  their  silk  again  —  this  time  it  will 
— 16  — 


SAINT     GUIDO 


come  floating   in  the  blue  air,  for   the  air  seems 
blue  if  you  look  up. 

"  It  is  a  great  joy  to  your  people,  dear,  when  the 
reaping  time  arrives :  the  harvest  is  a  great  joy  to 
you  when  the  thistledown  comes  rolling  along  in 
the  wind.  So  that  I  shall  be  happy  even  when 
the  reapers  cut  me  down,  because  I  know  it  is  for 
you,  and  your  people,  my  love.  The  strong  men 
will  come  to  us  gladly,  and  the  women,  and  the 
little  children  will  sit  in  the  shade  and  gather  great 
white  trumpets  of  convolvulus,  and  come  to  tell 
their  mothers  how  they  saw  the  young  partridges 
in  the  next  field.  But  there  is  one  thing  we  do 
not  like,  and  that  is,  all  the  labour  and  the  misery. 
Why  cannot  your  people  have  us  without  so  much 
labour,  and  why  are  so  many  of  you  unhappy  ? 
Why  cannot  they  be  all  happy  with  us  as  you  are, 
dear  ?  For  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  years  now 
the  wheat  every  year  has  been  sorrowful  for  your 
people,  and  I  think  we  get  more  sorrowful  every 
year  about  it,  because  as  I  was  telling  you  just  now 
the  flowers  go,  and  the  swallows  go,  the  old,  old 
oaks  go,  and  that  oak  will  go,  under  the  shade  of 
which  you  are  lying,  Guido ;  and  if  your  people  do 
not  gather  the  flowers  now,  and  watch  the  swal- 
lows, and  listen  to  the  blackbirds  whistling,  as  you 
are  listening  now  while  I  talk,  then,  Guido,  my 
love,  they  will  never  pick  any  flowers,  nor  hear 

*  —17  — 


THE     OPEN 

any  birds'  songs.  They  think  they  will,  they  think 
that  when  they  have  toiled,  and  worked  a  long 
time,  almost  all  their  lives,  then  they  will  come  to 
the  flowers,  and  the  birds,  and  be  joyful  in  the 
sunshine.  But  no,  it  will  not  be  so,  for  then  they 
will  be  old  themselves,  and  their  ears  dull,  and 
their  eyes  dim,  so  that  the  birds  will  sound  a 
great  distance  off,  and  the  flowers  will  not  seem 
bright. 

"Of  course,  we  know  that  the  greatest  part 
of  your  people  cannot  help  themselves,  and  must 
labour  on  like  the  reapers  till  their  ears  are 
full  of  the  dust  of  age.  That  only  makes  us 
more  sorrowful,  and  anxious  that  things  should 
be  different.  I  do  not  suppose  we  should  think 
about  them  had  we  not  been  in  man's  hand  so 
long  that  now  we  have  got  to  feel  with  man. 
Every  year  makes  it  more  pitiful  because  then 
there  are  more  flowers  gone,  and  added  to  the 
vast  numbers  of  those  gone  before,  and  never 
gathered,  or  looked  at,  though  they  could  have 
given  so  much  pleasure.  And  all  the  work  and 
labour,  and  thinking,  and  reading  and  learning 
that  your  people  do  ends  in  nothing  —  not  even 
one  flower.  We  cannot  understand  why  it  should 
be  so.  There  are  thousands  of  wheat-ears  in  this 
field,  more  than  you  would  know  how  to  write 
down  with  your  pencil,  though  you  have  learned 
— 18  — 


SAINT     GUIDO 


your  tables,  sir.  Yet  all  of  us  thinking,  and  talk- 
ing, cannot  understand  why  it  is  when  we  con- 
sider how  clever  your  people  are,  and  how  they 
bring  ploughs,  and  steam-engines,  and  put  up 
wires  along  the  roads  to  tell  you  things  when 
you  are  miles  away,  and  sometimes  we  are  sown 
where  we  can  hear  the  hum,  hum,  all  day  of  the 
children  learning  in  the  school.  The  butterflies 
flutter  over  us,  and  the  sun  shines,  and  the  doves 
are  very,  very  happy  at  their  nest,  but  the  chil- 
dren go  on  hum,  hum  inside  this  house,  and 
learn,  learn.  So  we  suppose  you  must  be  very 
clever,  and  yet  you  cannot  manage  this.  All  your 
work  is  wasted,  and  you  labour  in  vain  —  you  dare 
not  leave  it  a  minute. 

"  If  you  left  it  a  minute  it  would  all  be  gone  ;  it 
does  not  mount  up  and  make  a  store,  so  that  all 
of  you  could  sit  by  it  and  be  happy.  Directly 
you  leave  ofF  you  are  hungry,  and  thirsty,  and 
miserable  like  the  beggars  that  tramp  along  the 
dusty  road  here.  All  the  thousand  years  of  labour 
since  this  field  was  first  ploughed  have  not  stored 
up  anything  for  you.  It  would  not  matter  about 
the  work  so  much  if  you  were  only  happy  ;  the 
bees  work  every  year,  but  they  are  happy;  the 
doves  build  a  nest  every  year,  but  they  are  very, 
very  happy.  We  think  it  must  be  because  you 
do  not  come  out  to  us,  and  be  with  us,  and  think 
—  19  — 


^^     THE     OPEN     AIR 

more  as  we  do.  It  is  not  because  your  people 
have  not  got  plenty  to  eat  and  drink  —  you  have 
as  much  as  the  bees.  Why,  just  look  at  us ! 
Look  at  the  whea%t  that  grows  all  over  the  world ; 
all  the  figures  that  were  ever  written  in  pencil 
could  not  tell  how  much,  it  is  such  an  immense 
quantity.  Yet  your  people  starve  and  die  of 
hunger  every  now  and  then,  and  we  have  seen 
the  wretched  beggars  tramping  along  the  road. 
We  have  known  of  times  when  there  was  a 
great  pile  of  us,  almost  a  hill  piled  up,  it  was 
not  in  this  country,  it  was  in  another  warmer 
country,  and  yet  no  one  dared  to  touch  it  —  they 
died  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill  of  wheat.  The 
earth  is  full  of  skeletons  of  people  who  have 
died  of  hunger.  They  are  dying  now  this  min- 
ute in  your  big  cities,  with  nothing  but  stones  all 
round  them,  stone  walls  and  stone  streets ;  not 
jolly  stones  like  those  you  threw  in  the  water, 
dear  —  hard,  unkind  stones  that  make  them  cold 
and  let  them  die,  while  we  are  growing  here, 
millions  of  us,  in  the  sunshine  with  the  butter- 
flies floating  over  us.  This  makes  us  unhappy  ; 
I  was  very  unhappy  this  morning  till  you  came 
running  over  and  played  with  us. 

"  It  is  not  because  there  is  not  enough :  it  is 
because  your  people  are  so  short-sighted,  so  jeal- 
ous and  selfish,  and  so  curiously  infatuated  with 


SAINT     GUIDO 


things  that  are  not  so  good  as  your  old  toys  which 
you  have  flung  away  and  forgotten.  And  you  teach 
the  children  hum,  hum,  all  day  to  care  about  such 
silly  things,  and  to  work  for  them  and  to  look  to 
them  as  the  object  of  their  lives.  It  is  because 
you  do  not  share  us  among  you  without  price  or 
difference;  because  you  do  not  share  the  great 
earth  among  you  fairly,  without  spite  and  jealousy 
and  avarice;  because  you  will  not  agree;  you 
silly,  foolish  people  to  let  all  the  flowers  wither 
for  a  thousand  years  while  you  keep  each  other  at 
a  distance,  instead  of  agreeing  and  sharing  them  ! 
Is  there  something  in  you  —  as  there  is  poison 
in  the  nightshade,  you  know  it,  dear,  your  papa 
told  you  not  to  touch  it  —  is  there  a  sort  of  poison 
in  your  people  that  works  them  up  into  a  hatred 
of  one  another  ?  Why,  then,  do  you  not  agree 
and  have  all  things,  all  the  great  earth  can  give 
you,  just  as  we  have  the  sunshine  and  the  rain  ? 
How  happy  your  people  could  be  if  they  would 
only  agree !  But  you  go  on  teaching  even  the 
little  children  to  follow  the  same  silly  objects, 
hum,  hum,  hum,  all  the  day,  and  they  will  grow 
up  to  hate  each  other,  and  to  try  which  can  get 
the  most  round  things  —  you  have  one  in  your 
pocket." 

"Sixpence,"  said   Guido.     "It's   quite  a   new 
one." 


THE     OPEN     AIR 


"And  other  things  quite  as  silly,"  the  Wheat 
continued.  "  All  the  time  the  flowers  are  flower- 
ing, but  they  will  go,  even  the  oaks  will  go.  We 
think  the  reason  you  do  not  all  have  plenty,  and 
why  you  do  not  do  only  just  a  little  work,  and 
why  you  die  of  hunger  if  you  leave  off",  and  why 
so  many  of  you  are  unhappy  in  body  and  mind, 
and  all  the  misery  is  because  you  have  not  got  a 
spirit  like  the  wheat,  like  us ;  you  will  not  agree, 
and  you  will  not  share,  and  you  will  hate  each 
other,  and  you  will  be  so  avaricious,  and  you  will 
not  touch  the  flowers,  or  go  into  the  sunshine  (you 
would  rather  half  of  you  died  among  the  hard 
stones  first),  and  you  will  teach  your  children 
hum,  hum,  to  follow  in  some  foolish  course  that 
has  caused  you  all  this  unhappiness  a  thousand 
years,  and  you  will  not  have  a  spirit  like  us,  and 
feel  like  us.  Till  you  have  a  spirit  like  us,  and 
feel  like  us,  you  will  never,  never  be  happy.  Lie 
still,  dear;  the  shadow  of  the  oak  is  broad  and 
will  not  move  from  you  for  a  long  time  yet." 

"  But  perhaps  Paul  will  come  up  to  my  house, 
and  Percy  and  Morna." 

"  Look  up  in  the  oak  very  quietly,  don't  move, 
just  open  your  eyes  and  look,"  said  the  Wheat, 
who  was  very  cunning.  Guido  looked  and  saw 
a  lovely  little  bird  climbing  up  a  branch.  It  was 
chequered,  black  and  white,  like  a  very  small 


SAINT     GUIDO 


magpie,  only  without  such  a  long  tail,  and  it 
had  a  spot  of  red  about  its  neck.  It  was  a  pied 
woodpecker,  not  the  large  green  woodpecker,  but 
another  kind.  Guido  saw  it  go  round  the  branch, 
and  then  some  way  up,  and  round  again  till  it 
came  to  a  place  that  pleased  it,  and  then  the 
woodpecker  struck  the  bark  with  its  bill,  tap-tap. 
The  sound  was  quite  loud,  ever  so  much  more 
noise  than  such  a  tiny  bill  seemed  able  to  make. 
Tap-tap !  If  Guido  had  not  been  still  so  that  the 
bird  had  come  close  he  would  never  have  found 
it  among  the  leaves.  Tap  —  tap!  After  it  had 
picked  out  all  the  insects  there,  the  woodpecker 
flew  away  over  the  ash  poles  of  the  copse. 

"  I  should  just  like  to  stroke  him,"  said  Guido. 
"  If  I  climbed  up  into  the  oak  perhaps  he  would 
come  again,  and  I  could  catch  him." 

"  No,"  said  the  Wheat,  "  he  only  comes  once 
a  day." 

"Then  tell  me  stories,"  said  Guido,  imperiously. 

"  I  will  if  I  can,"  said  the  Wheat.  "  Once 
upon  a  time,  when  the  oak  the  lightning  struck 
was  still  living,  and  when  the  wheat  was  green  in 
this  very  field,  a  man  came  staggering  out  of  the 
wood,  and  walked  out  into  it.  He  had  an  iron 
helmet  on,  and  he  was  wounded,  and  his  blood 
stained  the  green  wheat  red  as  he  walked.  He 
tried  to  get  to  the  streamlet,  which  was  wider  then, 
—  23  — 


I2K     THE     OPEN     AIR 

Guido  dear,  to  drink,  for  he  knew  it  was  there,  but 
he  could  not  reach  it.  He  fell  down  and  died  in 
the  green  wheat,  dear,  for  he  was  very  much  hurt 
with  a  sharp  spea/,  but  more  so  with  hunger  and 
thirst." 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  said  Guido ;  "  and  now  I  look 
at  you,  why,  you  are  all  thirsty  and  dry,  you  nice 
old  Wheat,  and  the  ground  is  as  dry  as  dry  under 
you ;  I  will  get  you  something  to  drink." 

And  down  he  scrambled  into  the  ditch,  setting 
his  foot  firm  on  a  root,  for  though  he  was  so 
young,  he  knew  how  to  get  down  to  the  water 
without  wetting  his  feet,  or  falling  in,  and  how 
to  climb  up  a  tree,  and  everything  jolly.  Guido 
dipped  his  hand  in  the  streamlet,  and  flung  the 
water  over  the  wheat  five  or  six  good  sprinklings 
till  the  drops  hung  on  the  wheat-ears.  Then  he 
said,  "  Now  you  are  better." 

"  Yes,  dear,  thank  you,  my  love,"  said  the 
Wheat,  who  was  very  pleased,  though  of  course 
the  water  was  not  enough  to  wet  its  roots.  Still  it 
was  pleasant,  like  a  very  little  shower.  Guido  lay 
down  on  his  chest  this  time,  with  his  elbows  on 
the  ground,  propping  his  head  up,  and  as  he  now 
faced  the  wheat,  he  could  see  in  between  the 
stalks. 

"  Lie  still,"  said  the  Wheat,  "  the  corncrake  is 
not  very  far  off,  he  has  come  up  here  since  your 


SAINT     GUIDO 


papa  told  the  mowers  to  mow  the  meadow,  and 
very  likely  if  you  stay  quiet  you  will  see  him.  If 
you  do  not  understand  all  I  say,  never  mind,  dear; 
the  sunshine  is  warm,  but  not  too  warm  in  the 
shade,  and  we  all  love  you,  and  want  you  to  be 
as  happy  as  ever  you  can  be." 

"  It  is  jolly  to  be  quite  hidden  like  this,"  said 
Guido.  "  No  one  could  find  me  ;  if  Paul  were  to 
look  all  day  he  would  never  find  me;  even  Papa  could 
not  find  me.  Now  go  on  and  tell  me  stories." 

"Ever  so  many  times,  when  the  oak  the  light- 
ning struck  was  young,"  said  the  Wheat,  "  great 
stags  used  to  come  out  of  the  wood  and  feed  on 
the  green  wheat  ;  it  was  early  in  the  morning 
when  they  came.  Such  great  stags,  and  so  proud, 
and  yet  so  timid,  the  least  thing  made  them  go 
bound,  bound,  bound." 

"  Oh,  I  know!"  said  Guido;  "I  saw  some 
jump  over  the  fence  in  the  forest  —  I  am  going 
there  again  soon.  If  I  take  my  bow  I  will  shoot 
one  !  " 

"  But  there  are  no  deer  here  now,"  said  the 
Wheat  ;  "  they  have  been  gone  a  long,  long  time  ; 
though  I  think  your  papa  has  one  of  their  antlers." 

"  Now,  how  did  you  know  that  ?  "  said  Guido  ; 
"  you  have  never  been  to  our  house,  and  you  can- 
not see  in  from  here  because  the  fir  copse  is  in  the 
way  ;  how  do  you  find  out  these  things  ?  " 
—  25  — 


THE     OPEN     AIR 


"  Oh  !  "  said  the  Wheat,  laughing,  u  we  have 
lots  of  ways  of  finding  out  things.  Don't  you 
remember  the  swallow  that  swooped  down  and 
told  you  not  to  b$  frightened  at  the  hare  ?  The 
swallow  has  his  nest  at  your  house,  and  he  often 
flies  by  your  windows  and  looks  in,  and  he  told 
me.  The  birds  tell  us  lots  of  things,  and  all  about 
what  is  over  the  sea." 

"  But  that  is  not  a  story,"  said  Guido. 

"Once  upon  a  time,"  said  the  Wheat,  "when 
the  oak  the  lightning  struck  was  alive,  your  papa's 
papa's  papa,  ever  so  much  farther  back  than  that, 
had  all  the  fields  round  here,  all  that  you  can  see 
from  Acre  Hill.  And  do  you  know  it  happened 
that  in  time  every  one  of  them  was  lost  or  sold, 
and  your  family,  Guido  dear,  were  homeless  — 
no  house,  no  garden  or  orchard,  and  no  dogs  or 
guns,  or  anything  jolly.  One  day  the  papa  that 
was  then  came  along  the  road  with  his  little 
Guido,  and  they  were  beggars,  dear,  and  had  no 
place  to  sleep,  and  they  slept  all  night  in  the  wheat 
in,  this  very  field  close  to  where  the  hawthorn  bush 
grows  now — where  you  picked  the  Mayflowers, 
you  know,  my  love.  They  slept  there  all  the 
summer  night,  and  the  fern  owls  flew  to  and  fro, 
and  the  bats  and  crickets  chirped,  and  the  stars 
shone  faintly,  as  if  they  were  made  pale  by  the 
heat.  The  poor  papa  never  had  a  house,  but  that 
—  26— 


SAINT    GUIDO 


little  Guido  lived  to  grow  up  a  great  man,  and  he 
worked  so  hard,  and  he  was  so  clever,  and  every 
one  loved  him,  which  was  the  best  of  all  things. 
He  bought  this  very  field,  and  then  another,  and 
another,  and  got  such  a  lot  of  the  old  fields  back 
again,  and  the  goldfinches  sang  for  joy,  and  so  did 
the  larks  and  the  thrushes,  because  they  said  what 
a  kind  man  he  was.  Then  his  son  got  some  more 
of  them,  till  at  last  your  papa  bought  ever  so  many 
more.  But  we  often  talk  about  the  little  boy  who 
slept  in  the  wheat  in  this  field,  which  was  his 
father's  father's  field.  If  only  the  wheat  then 
could  have  helped  him,  and  been  kind  to  him, 
you  may  be  sure  it  would.  We  love  you  so 
much  we  like  to  see  the  very  crumbs  left  by  the 
men  who  do  the  hoeing  when  they  eat  their  crusts  ; 
we  wish  they  could  have  more  to  eat,  but  we  like 
to  see  their  crumbs,  which  you  know  are  made  of 
wheat,  so  that  we  have  done  them  some  good  at 
least." 

"  That 's  not  a  story,"  said  Guido. 

"  There 's  a  gold  coin  here  somewhere,"  said 
the  Wheat,  "  such  a  pretty  one,  it  would  make  a 
capital  button  for  your  jacket,  dear,  or  for  your 
mamma ;  that  is  all  any  sort  of  money  is  good  for; 
I  wish  all  the  coins  were  made  into  buttons  for 
little  Guido." 

"  Where  is  it  ?  "  said  Guido. 
—  27  — 


THE     OPEN     AIR 


"  I  can't  exactly  tell  where  it  is,"  said  the 
Wheat.  "  It  was  very  near  me  once,  and  I 
thought  the  next  thunder's  rain  would  wash  it 
down  into  the  streamlet  —  it  has  been  here  ever 
so  long,  it  came  here  first  just  after  the  oak  the 
lightning  split  died.  And  it  has  been  rolled  about 
by  the  ploughs  ever  since,  and  no  one  has  ever 
seen  it ;  I  thought  it  must  go  into  the  ditch  at 
last,  but  when  the  men  came  to  hoe  one  of  them 
knocked  it  back,  and  then  another  kicked  it  along 
—  it  was  covered  with  earth  —  and  then,  one  day, 
a. rook  came  and  split  the  clod  open  with  his  bill, 
and  pushed  the  pieces  first  one  side  and  then  the 
other,  and  the  coin  went  one  way,  but  I  did  not 
see;  I  must  ask  a  humble-bee,  or  a  mouse,  or  a 
mole,  or  some  one  who  knows  more  about  it.  It 
is  very  thin,  so  that  if  the  rook's  bill  had  struck  it, 
his  strong  bill  would  have  made  a  dint  in  it,  and 
there  is,  I  think,  a  ship  marked  on  it." 

"  Oh,  I  must  have  it  !  A  ship  !  Ask  a  humble- 
bee  directly  ;  be  quick  !  " 

Bang  !  There  was  a  loud  report,  a  gun  had 
gone  off  in  the  copse. 

"  That 's  my  papa,"  shouted  Guido.  "  I  'm 
sure  that  was  my  papa's  gun  !  "  Up  he  jumped, 
and  getting  down  the  ditch,  stepped  across  the 
water,  and,  seizing  a  hazel-bough  to  help  him- 
self, climbed  up  the  bank.  At  the  top  he  slipped 
—  28  — 


SAINT    GUIDO 

through  the  fence  by  the  oak  and  so  into  the  copse. 
He  was  in  such  a  hurry  he  did  not  mind  the 
thistles  or  the  boughs  that  whipped  him  as  they 
sprang  back,  he  scrambled  through,  meeting  the 
vapour  of  the  gunpowder  and  the  smell  of  sulphur. 
In  a  minute  he  found  a  green  path,  and  in  the  path 
was  his  papa,  who  had  just  shot  a  cruel  crow. 
The  crow  had  been  eating  the  birds'  eggs,  and 
picking  the  little  birds  to  pieces. 


—  49  — 


GOLDEN-BROWN 


THREE  fruit-pickers  —  women  —  were 
the  first  people  I  met  near  the  village 
(in  Kent).  They  were  clad  in  "  rags 
and  jags,"  and  the  face  of  the  eldest 
was  in  "  jags  "  also.  It  was  torn  and  scarred  by 
time  and  weather ;  wrinkled,  and  in  a  manner 
twisted  like  the  fantastic  turns  of  a  gnarled  tree- 
trunk,  hollow  and  decayed.  Through  these  jags 
and  tearings  of  weather,  wind,  and  work,  the 
nakedness  of  the  countenance  —  the  barren  frame- 
work —  was  visible  ;  the  cheekbones  like  knuckles, 
the  chin  of  brown  stoneware,  the  upper  lip  smooth, 
and  without  the  short  groove  which  should  appear 
between  lip  and  nostrils.  Black  shadows  dwelt  in 
the  hollows  of  the  cheeks  and  temples,  and  there 
was  a  blackness  about  the  eyes.  This  blackness 
gathers  in  the  faces  of  the  old  who  have  been 
much  exposed  to  the  sun,  the  fibres  of  the  skin 
are  scorched  and  half  charred,  like  a  stick  thrust  in 
the  fire  and  withdrawn  before  the  flames  seize  it. 
Beside  her  were  two  young  women,  both  in  the 
freshness  of  youth  and  health.  Their  faces  glowed 
_3o—  _ 


GOLDEN-BROWN 

with  a  golden-brown,  and  so  great  is  the  effect  of 
colour  that  their  plain  features  were  transfigured. 
The  sunlight  under  their  faces  made  them  beauti- 
ful. The  summer  light  had  been  absorbed  by  the 
skin,  and  now  shone  forth  from  it  again  ;  as  certain 
substances  exposed  to  the  day  absorb  light  and  emit 
a  phosphorescent  gleam  in  the  darkness  of  night,  so 
the  sunlight  had  been  drunk  up  by  the  surface  of 
the  skin,  and  emanated  from  it. 

Hour  after  hour  ,in  the  gardens  and  orchards 
they  worked  in  the  full  beams  of  the  sun,  gather- 
ing fruit  for  the  London  market,  resting  at  midday 
in  the  shade  of  the  elms  in  the  corner.  Even 
then  they  were  in  the  sunshine  —  even  in  the 
shade,  for  the  air  carries  it,  or  its  influence,  as  it 
carries  the  perfumes  of  flowers.  The  heated  air 
undulates  over  the  field  in  waves  which  are  visible 
at  a  distance  ;  near  at  hand  they  are  not  seen,  but 
roll  in  endless  ripples  through  the  shadows  of  the 
trees,  bringing  with  them  the  actinic  power  of  the 
sun.  Not  actinic  —  alchemic  —  some  intangible, 
mysterious  power  which  cannot  be  supplied  in  any 
other  form  but  the  sun's  rays.  It  reddens  the 
cherry,  it  gilds  the  apple,  it  colours  the  rose,  it 
ripens  the  wheat,  it  touches  a  woman's  face  with 
the  golden-brown  of  ripe  life  —  ripe  as  a  plum. 
There  is  no  other  hue  so  beautiful  as  this  human 
sunshine  tint. 

—  3'  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


The  great  painters  knew  it  —  Rubens,  for  in- 
stance; perhaps  he  saw  it  on  the  faces  of  the 
women  who  gathered  fruit  or  laboured  at  the  har- 
vest in  the  Low  Countries  centuries  since.  He 
could  never  have  seen  it  in  a  city  of  these  north- 
ern climes,  that  is  certain.  Nothing  in  nature 
that  I  know,  except  the  human  face,  ever  attains 
this  colour.  Nothing  like  it  is  ever  seen  in  the 
sky,  either  at  dawn  or  sunset ;  the  dawn  is  often 
golden,  often  scarlet,  or  purple  and  gold ;  the  sun- 
set crimson,  flaming  bright,  or  delicately  grey  and 
scarlet ;  lovely  colours  all  of  them,  but  not  like 
this.  Nor  is  there  any  flower  comparable  to  it, 
nor  any  gem.  It  is  purely  human,  and  it  is  only 
found  on  the  human  face  which  has  felt  the  sun- 
shine continually.  There  must,  too,  I  suppose,  be 
a  disposition  towards  it,  a  peculiar  and  exceptional 
condition  of  the  fibres  which  build  up  the  skin  ; 
for  of  the  numbers  who  work  out-of-doors,  very, 
very  few  possess  it ;  they  become  brown,  red,  or 
tanned,  sometimes  of  a  parchment  hue  —  they  do 
not  get  this  colour. 

These  two  women  from  the  fruit  gardens  had 
the  golden-brown  in  their  faces,  and  their  plain 
features  were  transfigured.  They  were  walking  in 
the  dusty  road ;  there  was  as  background  a  high, 
dusty  hawthorn  hedge  which  had  lost  the  fresh- 
ness of  spring  and  was  browned  by  the  work  of 
—  31  — 


GOLDEN-BROWN  ^^^^^3 


caterpillars  ;  they  were  in  rags  and  jags,  their  shoes 
had  split,  and  their  feet  looked  twice  as  wide  in 
consequence.  Their  hands  were  black  ;  not  grimy, 
but  absolutely  black,  and  neither  hands  nor  necks 
ever  knew  water,  I  am  sure.  There  was  not  the 
least  shape  to  their  garments  ;  their  dresses  simply 
hung  down  in  straight  ungraceful  lines  ;  there  was 
no  colour  of  ribbon  or  flower,  to  light  up  the  din- 
giness.  But  they  had  the  golden-brown  in  their 
faces,  and  they  were  beautiful. 

The  feet,  as  they  walked,  were  set  firm  on  the 
ground,  and  the  body  advanced  with  measured,  de- 
liberate, yet  lazy  and  confident  grace ;  shoulders 
thrown  back  —  square,  but  not  over-square  (as 
those  who  have  been  drilled  )  ;  hips  swelling  at 
the  side  in  lines  like  the  full  bust,  though  longer 
drawn  ;  busts  well  filled  and  shapely,  despite  the 
rags  and  jags  and  the  washed-out  gaudiness  of 
the  shawl.  There  was  that  in  their  cheeks  that 
all  the  wealth  of  London  could  not  purchase  —  a 
superb  health  in  their  carriage  princesses  could  not 
obtain.  It  came,  then,  from  the  air  and  sunlight, 
and  still  more,  from  some  alchemy  unknown  to  the 
physician  or  the  physiologist,  some  faculty  exercised 
by  the  body,  happily  endowed  with  a  special  power 
of  extracting  the  utmost  richness  and  benefit  from 
the  rudest  elements.  Thrice  blessed  and  fortu- 
nate, beautiful  golden-brown  in  their  cheeks,  superb 
3  —33  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


health  in  their  gait,  they  walked  as  the  immortals  on 
earth. 

As  they  passed  they  regarded  me  with  bitter 
envy,  jealousy,  and  hatred  written  in  their  eyes ; 
they  cursed  me  in  their  hearts.  I  verily  believe 
—  so  unmistakably  hostile  were  their  glances  — 
that  had  opportunity  been  given,  in  the  dead  of 
night  and  far  from  help,  they  would  gladly  have 
taken  me  unawares  with  some  blow  of  stone  or 
club,  and,  having  rendered  me  senseless,  would 
have  robbed  me,  and  considered  it  a  righteous 
act.  Not  that  there  was  any  bloodthirstiness  or 
exceptional  evil  in  their  nature  more  than  in  that 
of  the  thousand-and-one  toilers  that  are  met  on  the 
highway,  but  simply  because  they  worked  —  such 
hard  work  of  hands  and  stooping  backs,  and  I  was 
idle,  for  all  they  knew.  Because  they  were  going 
from  one  field  of  labour  to  another  field  of  labour, 
and  I  walked  slowly  and  did  no  visible  work.  My 
dress  showed  no  stain,  the  weather  had  not  bat- 
tered it ;  there  was  no  rent,  no  rags  and  jags.  At 
an  hour  when  they  were  merely  changing  one  place 
of  work  for  another  place  of  work,  to  them  it  ap- 
peared that  I  had  found  idleness  indoors  wearisome 
and  had  just  come  forth  to  exchange  it  for  another 
idleness.  They  saw  no  end  to  their  labour;  they 
had  worked  from  childhood,  and  could  see  no  pos- 
sible end  to  labour  until  limbs  failed  or  life  closed. 
—  34  — 


E^CS;  GOLDEN-BROWN 


Why  should  they  be  like  this  ?  Why  should  I  do 
nothing  ?  They  were  as  good  as  I  was,  and  they 
hated  me.  Their  indignant  glances  spoke  it  as 
plain  as  words,  and  far  more  distinctly  than  I  can 
write  it.  You  cannot  read  it  with  such  feeling  as 
I  received  their  looks. 

Beautiful  golden-brown,  superb  health,  what 
would  I  not  give  for  these  ?  To  be  the  thrice- 
blessed  and  chosen  of  nature,  what  inestimable 
fortune  !  To  be  indifferent  to  any  circumstances 
—  to  be  quite  thoughtless  as  to  draughts  and  chills, 
careless  of  heat,  indifferent  to  the  character  of  din- 
ners, able  to  do  well  on  hard,  dry  bread,  capable 
of  sleeping  in  the  open  under  a  rick,  or  some  slight 
structure  of  a  hurdle,  propped  on  a  few  sticks  and 
roughly  thatched  with  straw,  and  to  sleep  sound  as 
an  oak,  and  wake  strong  as  an  oak  in  the  morn- 
ing—  gods,  what  a  glorious  life  !  I  envied  them  ; 
they  fancied  I  looked  askance  at  their  rags  and 
jags.  I  envied  them,  and  considered  their  health 
and  hue  ideal.  I  envied  them  that  unwearied  step, 
that  firm  uprightness,  and  measured  yet  lazy  gait, 
but  most  of  all  the  power  which  they  possessed, 
though  they  did  not  exercise  it  intentionally,  of 
being  always  in  the  sunlight,  the  air,  and  abroad 
upon  the  earth.  If  so  they  chose,  and  without 
stress  or  strain,  they  could  see  the  sunrise,  they 
could  be  with  him  as  it  were  —  unwearied  and 
—  35  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


without  distress  —  the  livelong  day ;  they  could 
stay  on  while  the  moon  rose  over  the  corn,  and 
till  the  silent  stars  at  silent  midnight  shone  in  the 
cool  summer  night,  and  on  and  on  till  the  cock 
crew  and  the  faint  dawn  appeared.  The  whole 
time  in  the  open  air,  resting  at  midday  under 
the  elms  with  the  ripple  of  heat  flowing  through 
the  shadow ;  at  midnight  between  the  ripe  corn 
and  the  hawthorn  hedge  on  the  white  wild  camo- 
mile and  the  poppy  pale  in  the  duskiness,  with 
face  upturned  to  the  thoughtful  heaven. 

Consider  the  glory  of  it,  the  life  above  this  life 
to  be  obtained  from  constant  presence  with  the 
sunlight  and  the  stars.  I  thought  of  them  all  day, 
and  envied  them  (as  they  envied  me),  and  in  the 
evening  I  found  them  again.  It  was  growing 
dark,  and  the  shadow  took  away  something  of  the 
coarseness  of  the  group  outside  one  of  the  village 
"pothouses."  Green  foliage  overhung  them  and 
the  men  with  whom  they  were  drinking;  the  white 
pipes,  the  blue  smoke,  the  flash  of  a  match,  the  red 
sign  which  had  so  often  swung  to  and  fro  in  the 
gales  now  still  in  the  summer  eve,  the  rude  seats 
and  blocks,  the  reaping-hooks  bound  about  the 
edge  with  hay,  the  white  dogs  creeping  from  knee 
to  knee,  some  such  touches  gave  an  interest  to  the 
scene.  But  a  quarrel  had  begun  j  the  men  swore, 
but  the  women  did  worse.  It  is  impossible  to  give 
-36- 


E3WE3K    GOLDEN-BROWN 


a  hint  of  the  language  they  used,  especially  the 
elder  of  the  three  whose  hollow  face  was  blackened 
by  time  and  exposure.  The  two  golden-brown 
girls  were  so  heavily  intoxicated  they  could  but 
stagger  to  and  fro  and  mouth  and  gesticulate,  and 
one  held  a  quart  from  which,  as  she  moved,  she 
spilled  the  ale. 


—  37  — 


WILD     FLOWERS 


FIR  tree  is  not  a  flower,  and  yet  it 
is  associated  in  my  mind  with  prim- 
roses. There  was  a  narrow  lane 
leading  into  a  wood,  where  I  used 
to  go  almost  every  day  in  the  early  months  of 
the  year,  and  at  one  corner  it  was  overlooked  by 
three  spruce  firs.  The  rugged  lane  there  began  to 
ascend  the  hill,  and  I  paused  a  moment  to  look 
back.  Immediately  the  high  fir  trees  guided  the 
eye  upwards,  and  from  their  tops  to  the  deep  azure 
of  the  March  sky  over,  but  a  step  from  the  tree  to 
the  heavens.  So  it  has  ever  been  to  me,  by  day  or 
by  night,  summer  or  winter,  beneath  trees  the  heart 
feels  nearer  to  that  depth  of  life  the  far  sky  means. 
The  rest  of  spirit  found  only  in  beauty,  ideal  and 
pure,  comes  there  because  the  distance  seems  within 
touch  of  thought.  To  the  heaven  thought  can 
reach  lifted  by  the  strong  arms  of  the  oak,  carried 
up  by  the  ascent  of  the  flame-shaped  fir.  Round 
the  spruce  top  the  blue  was  deepened,  concentrated 
by  the  fixed  point ;  the  memory  of  that  spot,  as 
it  were,  of  the  sky  is  still  fresh  —  I  can  see  it 
_38_ 


WILD     FLOWERS 


distinctly  —  still  beautiful  and  full  of  meaning. 
It  is  painted  in  bright  colour  in  my  mind,  colour 
thrice  laid,  and  indelible  ;  as  one  passes  a  shrine 
and  bows  the  head  to  the  Madonna,  so  I  recall 
the  picture  and  stoop  in  spirit  to  the  aspiration 
it  yet  arouses.  For  there  is  no  saint  like  the  sky, 
sunlight  shining  from  its  face. 

The  fir  tree  flowered  thus  before  the  primroses  — 
the  first  of  all  to  give  me  a  bloom,  beyond  reach 
but  visible,  while  even  the  hawthorn  buds  hesitated 
to  open.  Primroses  were  late  there,  a  high  district 
and  thin  soil  ;  you  could  read  of  them  as  found 
elsewhere  in  January  ;  they  rarely  came  much 
before  March,  and  but  sparingly  then.  On  the 
warm  red  sand  (red,  at  least,  to  look  at,  but  green 
by  geological  courtesy,  I  think)  of  Sussex,  round 
about  Hurst  of  the  Pierrepoints,  primroses  are  seen 
soon  after  the  year  has  turned.  In  the  lanes  about 
that  curious  old  mansion,  with  its  windows  reaching 
from  floor  to  roof,  that  stands  at  the  base  of  Wol- 
stanbury  Hill,  they  grow  early,  and  ferns  linger 
in  sheltered  overhung  banks.  The  South  Down 
range,  like  a  great  wall,  shuts  ofF  the  sea,  and  has 
a  different  climate  on  either  hand  ;  south  by  the 
sea  —  hard,  harsh,  flowerless,  almost  grassless, 
bitter,  and  cold  ;  on  the  north  side,  just  over  the 
hill  —  warm,  soft,  with  primroses  and  fern, 
willows  budding  and  birds  already  busy.  It  is 
—  39  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


a  double    England   there,  two    countries    side    by 
side. 

On  a  summer's  day  Wolstanbury  Hill  is  an 
island  in  sunshine.^  you  may  lie  on  the  grassy 
rampart,  high  up  in  the  most  delicate  air  —  Grecian 
air,  pellucid  —  alone,  among  the  butterflies  and 
humming  bees  at  the  thyme,  alone  and  isolated  ; 
endless  masses  of  hills  on  three  sides,  endless  weald 
or  valley  on  the  fourth  ;  all  warmly  lit  with  sun- 
shine, deep  under  liquid  sunshine  like  the  sands 
under  the  liquid  sea,  no  harshness  of  man-made 
sound  to  break  the  insulation  amid  nature,  on  an 
island  in  a  far  Pacific  of  sunshine.  Some  people 
would  hesitate  to  walk  down  the  staircase  cut  in 
the  turf  to  the  beech  trees  beneath;  the  woods  look 
so  small  beneath,  so  far  down  and  steep,  and  no 
handrail.  Many  go  to  the  Dyke,  but  none  to  Wol- 
stanbury Hill.  To  come  over  the  range  reminds 
one  of  what  travellers  say  of  coming  over  the  Alps 
into  Italy;  from  harsh  sea-slopes,  made  dry  with 
salt  as  they  sow  salt  on  razed  cities  that  naught  may 
grow,  to  warm  plains  rich  in  all  things,  and  with 
great  hills  as  pictures  hung  on  a  wall  to  gaze  at. 
Where  there  are  beech  trees  the  land  is  always 
beautiful;  beech  trees  at  the  foot  of  this  hill,  beech 
trees  at  Arundel  in  that  lovely  park  which  the  Duke 
of  Norfolk,  to  his  glory,  leaves  open  to  all  the  world, 
and  where  the  anemones  flourish  in  unusual  size  and 
_4o_ 


WILD    FLOWERS 

number;  beech  trees  in  Marlborough  Forest;  beech 
trees  at  the  summit  to  which  the  lane  leads  that  was 
spoken  of  just  now.  Beech  and  beautiful  scenery 
go  together. 

But  the  primroses  by  that  lane  did  not  appear  till 
late ;  they  covered  the  banks  under  the  thousand 
thousand  ash  poles ;  foxes  slipped  along  there  fre- 
quently, whose  friends  in  scarlet  coats  could  not 
endure  the  pale  flowers,  for  they  might  chink  their 
spurs  homewards.  In  one  meadow  near  primroses 
were  thicker  than  the  grass,  with  gorse  interspersed, 
and  the  rabbits  that  came  out  fed  among  flowers. 
The  primroses  last  on  to  the  celandines  and  cowslips, 
through  the  time  of  the  bluebells,  past  the  violets  — 
one  dies,  but  passes  on  the  life  to  another,  one  sets 
light  to  the  next,  till  the  ruddy  oaks  and  singing 
cuckoos  call  up  the  tall  mowing  grass  to  fringe 
summer. 

Before  I  had  any  conscious  thought  it  was  a  de- 
light to  me  to  find  wild  flowers,  just  to  see  them. 
It  was  a  pleasure  to  gather  them  and  to  take  them 
home ;  a  pleasure  to  show  them  to  others  —  to 
keep  them  as  long  as  they  would  live,  to  decorate 
the  room  with  them,  to  arrange  them  carelessly  with 
grasses,  green  sprays,  tree-bloom — large  branches 
of  chestnut  snapped  off,  and  set  by  a  picture  per- 
haps. Without  conscious  thought  of  seasons  and 
the  advancing  hours  to  light  on  the  white  wild  vio- 
—41  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

let,  the  meadow  orchis,  the  blue  veronica,  the  blue 
meadow  cranesbill ;  feeling  the  warmth  and  delight 
of  the  increasing  sun-rays,  but  not  recognising 
whence  or  why  it < was  joy.  All  the  world  is  young 
to  a  boy,  and  thought  has  not  entered  into  it ;  even 
the  old  men  with  grey  hair  do  not  seem  old  j  dif- 
ferent but  not  aged,  the  idea  of  age  has  not  been 
mastered.  A  boy  has  to  frown  and  study,  and  then 
does  not  grasp  what  long  years  mean.  The  vari- 
ous hues  of  the  petals  pleased  without  any  knowl- 
edge of  colour  contrasts,  no  note  even  of  colour 
except  that  it  was  bright,  and  the  mind  was  made 
happy  without  consideration  of  those  ideals  and 
hopes  afterwards  associated  with  the  azure  sky 
above  the  fir  tree.  A  fresh  footpath,  a  fresh 
flower,  a  fresh  delight.  The  reeds,  the  grasses,  the 
rushes  —  unknown  and  new  things  at  every  step 
—  something  always  to  find  ;  no  barren  spot  any- 
where, or  sameness.  Every  day  the  grass  painted 
anew,  and  its  green  seen  for  the  first  time ;  not  the 
old  green,  but  a  novel  hue  and  spectacle,  like  the 
first  view  of  the  sea. 

If  we  had  never  before  looked  upon  the  earth, 
but  suddenly  came  to  it  man  or  woman  grown,  set 
down  in  the  midst  of  a  summer  mead,  would  it  not 
seem  to  us  a  radiant  vision?  The  hues,  the  shapes, 
the  song  and  life  of  birds,  above  all  the  sunlight,  the 
breath  of  heaven,  resting  on  it ;  the  mind  would  be 
—  42  — 


WILD    FLOWERS 

filled  with  its  glory,  unable  to  grasp  it,  hardly  be- 
lieving that  such  things  could  be  mere  matter  and 
no  more.  Like  a  dream  of  some  spirit-land  it 
would  appear,  scarce  fit  to  be  touched  lest  it  should 
fall  to  pieces,  too  beautiful  to  be  long  watched  lest 
it  should  fade  away.  So  it  seemed  to  me  as  a  boy, 
sweet  and  new  like  this  each  morning  ;  and  even 
now,  after  the  years  that  have  passed,  and  the  lines 
they  have  worn  in  the  forehead,  the  summer  mead 
shines  as  bright  and  fresh  as  when  my  foot  first 
touched  the  grass.  It  has  another  meaning  now ; 
the  sunshine  and  the  flowers  speak  differently,  for 
a  heart  that  has  once  known  sorrow  reads  behind 
the  page,  and  sees  sadness  in  joy.  But  the  fresh- 
ness is  still  there,  the  dew  washes  the  colours  be- 
fore dawn.  Unconscious  happiness  in  finding 
wild  flowers  —  unconscious  and  unquestioning,  and 
therefore  unbounded. 

I  used  to  stand  by  the  mower  and  follow  the 
scythe  sweeping  down  thousands  of  the  broad- 
flowered  daisies,  the  knotted  knapweeds,  the  blue 
scabious,  the  yellow  rattles,  sweeping  so  close  and 
true  that  nothing  escaped  ;  and  yet,  although  I 
had  seen  so  many  hundred  of  each,  although  I  had 
lifted  armfuls  day  after  day,  still  they  were  fresh. 
They  never  lost  their  newness,  and  even  now  each 
time  I  gather  a  wild  flower  it  feels  a  new  thing. 
The  greenfinches  came  to  the  fallen  swathe  so  near 

—  43  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


to  us  they  seemed  to  have  no  fear ;  but  I  remember 
the  yellowhammers  most,  whose  colour,  like  that  of 
the  wild  flowers  and  the  sky,  has  never  faded  from 
my  memory.  The,  greenfinches  sank  into  the  fallen 
swathe,  the  loose  grass  gave  under  their  weight 
and  let  them  bathe  in  flowers. 

One  yellowhammer  sat  on  a  branch  of  ash  the 
livelong  morning,  still  singing  in  the  sun ;  his 
bright  head,  his  clean  bright  yellow,  gaudy  as 
Spain,  was  drawn  like  a  brush  charged  heavily 
with  colour  across  the  retina,  painting  it  deeply, 
for  there  on  the  eye's  memory  it  endures,  though 
that  was  boyhood  and  this  is  manhood,  still  un- 
changed. The  field  —  Stewart's  Mash  —  the  very 
tree,  young  ash  timber,  the  branch  projecting  over 
the  sward,  I  could  make  a  map  of  them.  Some- 
times I  think  sun-painted  colours  are  brighter  to 
me  than  to  many,  and  more  strongly  affect  the 
nerves  of  the  eye.  Straw  going  by  the  road  on  a 
dusky  winter's  day  seems  so  pleasantly  golden,  the 
sheaves  lying  aslant  at  the  top,  and  these  bundles 
of  yellow  tubes  thrown  up  against  the  dark  ivy  on 
the  opposite  wall.  Tiles,  red  burned,  or  orange 
coated,  the  sea  sometimes  cleanly  definite,  the 
shadows  of  trees  in  a  thin  wood  where  there  is 
room  for  shadows  to  form  and  fall ;  some  such 
shadows  are  sharper  than  light,  and  have  a  faint 
blue  tint.  Not  only  in  summer  but  in  cold  win- 

A  A         , 


WILD    FLOWERS 


ter,  and  not  only  romantic  things  but  plain  matter- 
of-fact  things,  as  a  wagon  freshly  painted  red  beside 
the  wright's  shop,  stand  out  as  if  wet  with  colour 
and  delicately  pencilled  at  the  edges.  It  must  be 
out-of-doors  ;  nothing  indoors  looks  like  this. 

Pictures  are  very  dull  and  gloomy  to  it,  and  very 
contrasted  colours  like  those  the  French  use  are 
necessary  to  fix  the  attention.  Their  dashes  of 
pink  and  scarlet  bring  the  faint  shadow  of  the  sun 
into  the  room.  As  for  our  painters,  their  works 
are  hung  behind  a  curtain,  and  we  have  to  peer 
patiently  through  the  dusk  of  evening  to  see  what 
they  mean.  Out-of-door  colours  do  not  need  to 
be  gaudy  —  a  mere  dull  stake  of  wood  thrust  in 
the  ground  often  stands  out  sharper  than  the  pink 
flashes  of  the  French  studio  ;  a  faggot ;  the  outline 
of  a  leaf;  low  tints  without  reflecting  power  strike 
the  eye  as  a  bell  the  ear.  To  me  they  are  intensely 
clear,  and  the  clearer  the  greater  the  pleasure.  It 
is  often  too  great,  for  it  takes  me  away  from  solid 
pursuits  merely  to  receive  the  impression,  as  water 
is  still  to  reflect  the  trees.  To  me  it  is  very  pain- 
ful when  illness  blots  the  definition  of  outdoor 
things,  so  wearisome  not  to  see  them  rightly,  and 
more  oppressive  than  actual  pain.  I  feel  as  if  I 
was  struggling  to  wake  up  with  dim,  half-opened 
lids  and  heavy  mind.  This  one  yellowhammer 
still  sits  on  the  ash  branch  in  Stewart's  Mash 
—  45  — 


E^33SE^*     THE     OPEN     AIR 


over  the  sward,  singing  in  the  sun,  his  feathers 
freshly  wet  with  colour,  the  same  sun-song,  and 
will  sing  to  me  so  long  as  the  heart  shall  beat. 

The  first  conscious  thought  about  wild  flowers 
was  to  find  out  their  names,  —  the  first  conscious 
pleasure,  —  and  then  I  began  to  see  so  many  that 
I  had  not  previously  noticed.  Once  you  wish  to 
identify  them  there  is  nothing  escapes,  down  to  the 
little  white  chickweed  of  the  path  and  the  moss  of 
the  wall.  I  put  my  hand  on  the  bridge  across  the 
brook  to  lean  over  and  look  down  into  the  water. 
Are  there  any  fish  ?  The  bricks  of  the  pier  are 
covered  with  green,  like  a  wall-painting  to  the  sur- 
face of  the  stream,  mosses  along  the  lines  of  the 
mortar,  and  among  the  moss  little  plants  —  what 
are  these  ?  In  the  dry  sunlit  lane  I  look  up  to 
the  top  of  the  great  wall  about  some  domain,  where 
the  green  figs  look  over  upright  on  their  stalks ; 
there  are  dry  plants  on  the  coping  —  what  are 
these  ?  Some  growing  thus,  high  in  the  air,  on 
stone,  and  in  the  chinks  of  the  tower,  suspended 
in  dry  air  and  sunshine ;  some  low  down  under 
the  arch  of  the  bridge  over  the  brook,  out  of  sight 
utterly,  unless  you  stoop  by  the  brink  of  the  water 
and  project  yourself  forward  to  examine  under. 
The  kingfisher  sees  them  as  he  shoots  through  the 
barrel  of  the  culvert.  There  the  sun  direct  never 
shines  upon  them,  but  the  sunlight  thrown  up  by 
_46- 


WILD    FLOWERS 


the  ripples  runs  all  day  in  bright  bars  along  the 
vault  of  the  arch,  playing  on  them.  The  stream 
arranges  the  sand  in  the  shallow  in  bars,  minute 
fixed  undulations ;  the  stream  arranges  the  sun- 
shine in  successive  flashes,  undulating  as  if  the 
sun,  drowsy  in  the  heat,  were  idly  closing  and  un- 
closing his  eyelids  for  sleep.  Plants  everywhere, 
hiding  behind  every  tree,  under  the  leaves,  in  the 
shady  places,  beside  the  dry  furrows  of  the  field  ; 
they  are  only  just  behind  something,  hidden  openly. 
The  instant  you  look  for  them  they  multiply  a  hun- 
dredfold ;  if  you  sit  on  the  beach  and  begin  to  count 
the  pebbles  by  you,  their  number  instantly  increases 
to  infinity  by  virtue  of  that  con-scious  act. 

The  bird's-foot  lotus  was  the  first.  The  boy 
must  have  seen  it,  must  have  trodden  on  it  in  the 
bare  woodland  pastures,  certainly  run  about  on  it, 
with  wet  naked  feet  from  the  bathing  ;  but  the  boy 
was  not  conscious  of  it.  This  was  the  first,  when 
the  desire  came  to  identify  and  to  know,  fixing 
upon  it  by  means  of  a  pale  and  feeble  picture. 
In  the  largest  pasture  there  were  different  soils  and 
climates ;  it  was  so  large  it  seemed  a  little  country 
of  itself  then  —  the  more  so  because  the  ground 
rose  and  fell,  making  a  ridge  to  divide  the  view 
and  enlarge  by  uncertainty.  The  high  sandy  soil 
on  the  ridge  where  the  rabbits  had  their  warren  ; 
the  rocky  soil  of  the  quarry  ;  the  long  grass  by  the 
—  47  — 


THE     OPEN     AIR 


elms  where  the  rooks  built,  under  whose  nests  there 
were  vast  unpalatable  mushrooms  —  the  true  mush- 
rooms with  salmon  gills  grew  nearer  the  warren  ;  the 
slope  towards  the  nut-tree  hedge  and  spring.  Several 
climates  in  one  field  :  the  wintry  ridge  over  which 
leaves  were  always  driving  in  all  four  seasons  of  the 
year ;  the  level  sunny  plain  and  fallen  cromlech  still 
tall  enough  for  a  gnomon  and  to  cast  its  shadow  in 
the  treeless  drought ;  the  moist,  warm,  grassy  de- 
pression ;  the  lotus-grown  slope,  warm  and  dry. 

If  you  have  been  living  in  one  house  in  the 
country  for  some  time,  and  then  go  on  a  visit  to 
another,  though  hardly  half  a  mile  distant,  you 
will  find  a  change  in  the  air,  the  feeling,  and  tone 
of  the  place.  It  is  close  by,  but  it  is  not  the  same. 
To  discover  these  minute  differences,  which  make 
one  locality  healthy  and  home  happy,  and  the  next 
adjoining  unhealthy,  the  Chinese  have  invented  the 
science  of  Feng-shui,  spying  about  with  cabalistic 
mystery,  casting  the  horoscope  of  an  acre.  There 
is  something  in  all  superstitions  ;  they  are  often 
the  foundation  of  science.  Superstition  having 
made  the  discovery,  science  composes  a  lecture  on 
the  reason  why,  and  claims  the  credit.  Bird's-foot 
lotus  means  a  fortunate  spot,  dry,  warm  —  so  far 
as  soil  is  concerned.  If  you  were  going  to  live  out- 
of-doors,  you  might  safely  build  your  kibitka  where 
you  found  it.  Wandering  with  the  pictured  flower- 
-48_ 


WILD    FLOWERS 

book,  just  purchased,  over  the  windy  ridge  where 
last  year's  skeleton  leaves,  blown  out  from  the  al- 
der copse  below,  came  on  with  grasshopper  motion 
—  lifted  and  laid  down  by  the  wind,  lifted  and  laid 
down  —  I  sat  on  the  sward  of  the  sheltered  slope, 
and  instantly  recognised  the  orange-red  claws  of 
the  flower  beside  me.  That  was  the  first ;  and 
this  very  morning,  I  dread  to  consider  how  many 
years  afterwards,  I  found  a  plant  on  a  wall  which 
I  do  not  know.  I  shall  have  to  trace  out  its  gen- 
ealogy and  emblazon  its  shield.  So  many  years  and 
still  only  at  the  beginning  —  the  beginning,  too, 
of  the  beginning  —  for  as  yet  1  have  not  thought 
of  the  garden  or  conservatory  flowers  (which  are 
wild  flowers  somewhere),  or  of  the  tropics,  or  the 
prairies. 

The  great  stone  of  the  fallen  cromlech,  crouch- 
ing down  afar  off  in  the  plain  behind  me,  cast  its 
shadow  in  the  sunny  morn  as  it  had  done,  so  many 
summers,  for  centuries  —  for  thousands  of  years : 
worn  white  by  the  endless  sunbeams  — the  cease- 
less flood  of  light  —  the  sunbeams  of  centuries,  the 
impalpable  beams  polishing  and  grinding  like  rush- 
ing water  :  silent,  yet  witnessing  of  the  Past ;  shad- 
owing the  Present  on  the  dial  of  the  field  :  a  mere 
dull  stone ;  but  what  is  it  the  mind  will  not  em- 
ploy to  express  to  itself  its  own  thoughts  ? 

There  was  a  hollow  near  in  which  hundreds  of 
4  —49  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


skeleton  leaves  had  settled,  a  stage  on  their  journey 
from  the  alder  copse,  so  thick  as  to  cover  the  thin 
grass,  and  at  the  side  of  the  hollow  a  wasp's  nest 
had  been  torn  out,t  by  a  badger.  On  the  soft  and 
spreading  sand  thrown  out  from  his  burrow  the 
print  of  his  foot  looked  as  large  as  an  elephant 
might  make.  The  wild  animals  of  our  fields  are 
so  small  that  the  badger's  foot  seemed  foreign  in 
its  size,  calling  up  the  thought  of  the  great  game 
of  distant  forests.  He  was  a  bold  badger  to  make 
his  burrow  there  in  the  open  warren,  unprotected 
by  park  walls  or  preserve  laws,  where  every  one 
might  see  who  chose.  I  never  saw  him  by  day- 
light :  that  they  do  get  about  in  daytime  is,  how- 
ever, certain,  for  one  was  shot  in  Surrey  recently 
by  sportsmen ;  they  say  he  weighed  forty  pounds. 

In  the  mind  all  things  are  written  in  pictures  — 
there  is  no  alphabetical  combination  of  letters  and 
words;  all  things  are  pictures  and  symbols.  The 
bird's-foot  lotus  is  the  picture  to  me  of  sunshine 
and  summer,  and  of  that  summer  in  the  heart 
which  is  known  only  in  youth,  and  then  not  alone. 
No  words  could  write  that  feeling:  the  bird's-foot 
lotus  writes  it. 

When    the    efforts    to    photograph    began,    the 

difficulty  was  to  fix  the  scene  thrown  by  the  lens 

upon  the  plate.     There  the  view  appeared  perfect 

to  the  least  of  details,  worked  out  by  the  sun,  and 

—  50  — 


WILD     FLOWERS     SSE3J 


made  as  complete  in  miniature  as  that  he  shone  upon 
in  nature.  But  it  fade'd  like  the  shadows  as  the 
summer  sun  declines.  Have  you  watched  them  in 
the  fields  among  the  flowers  ?  —  the  deep  strong 
mark  of  the  noonday  shadow  of  a  tree  such  as 
the  pen  makes  drawn  heavily  on  the  paper;  gradu- 
ally it  loses  its  darkness  and  becomes  paler  and 
thinner  at  the  edge  as  it  lengthens  and  spreads,  till 
shadow  and  grass  mingle  together.  Image  after 
image  faded  from  the  plates,  no  more  to  be  fixed 
than  the  reflection  in  water  of  the  trees  by  the 
shore.  Memory,  like  the  sun,  paints  to  me  bright 
pictures  of  the  golden  summer  time  of  lotus ;  I  can 
see  them,  but  how  shall  I  fix  them  for  you  ?  By 
no  process  can  that  be  accomplished.  It  is  like  a 
story  that  cannot  be  told  because  he  who  knows 
it  is  tongue-tied  and  dumb.  Motions  of  hands, 
wavings  and  gestures,  rudely  convey  the  framework, 
but  the  finish  is  not  there. 

To-day,  and  day  after  day,  fresh  pictures  are 
coloured  instantaneously  in  the  retina  as  bright 
and  perfect  in  detail  and  hue.  This  very  power 
is  often,  I  think,  the  cause  of  pain  to  me.  To 
see  so  clearly  is  to  value  so  highly  and  to  feel  too 
deeply.  The  smallest  of  the  pencilled  branches 
of  the  bare  ash  tree  drawn  distinctly  against  the 
winter  sky,  waving  lines  one  within  the  other, 
yet  following  and  partly  parallel,  reproducing  in 
—  51  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


the  curve  of  the  twig  the  curve  of  the  great 
trunk;  is  it  not  a  pleasure  to  trace  each  to  its 
ending  ?  The  raindrops  as  they  slide  from  leaf 
to  leaf  in  June,  the4  balmy  shower  that  reperfumes 
each  wild  flower  and  green  thing,  drops  lit  with 
the  sun,  and  falling  to  the  chorus  of  the  refreshed 
birds;  is  not  this  beautiful  to  see  ?  On  the  grasses 
tall  and  heavy  the  purplish  blue  pollen,  a  shim- 
mering dust,  sown  broadcast  over  the  ripening 
meadow  from  July's  warm  hand  —  the  bluish 
pollen,  the  lilac  pollen  of  the  grasses,  a  delicate 
mist  of  blue  floating  on  the  surface,  has  always 
been  an  especial  delight  to  me.  Finches  shake 
it  from  the  stalks  as  they  rise.  No  day,  no  hour 
of  summer,  no  step  but  brings  new  mazes  —  there 
is  no  word  to  express  design  without  plan,  and 
these  designs  of  flower  and  leaf  and  colours  of 
the  sun  cannot  be  reduced  to  set  order.  The 
eye  is  for  ever  drawn  onward  and  finds  no  end. 
To  see  these  always  so  sharply,  wet  and  fresh, 
is  almost  too  much  sometimes  for  the  wearied 
yet  insatiate  eye.  I  am  obliged  to  turn  away 
—  to  shut  my  eyes  and  say  I  will  not  see,  I  will 
not  observe ;  I  will  concentrate  my  mind  on  my 
own  little  path  of  life,  and  steadily  gaze  down- 
wards. In  vain.  Who  can  do  so  ?  who  can  care 
alone  for  his  or  her  petty  trifles  of  existence,  that 
has  once  entered  amongst  the  wild  flowers  ?  How 


WILD    FLOWERS 

shall  I  shut  out  the  sun  ?  Shall  I  deny  the  con- 
stellations of  the  night  ?  They  are  there  j  the 
Mystery  is  for  ever  about  us — the  question,  the 
hope,  the  aspiration  cannot  be  put  out.  So  that 
it  is  almost  a  pain  not  to  be  able  to  cease  observ- 
ing and  tracing  the  untraceable  maze  of  beauty. 

Blue  veronica  was  the  next  identified,  sometimes 
called  germander  speedwell,  sometimes  bird's-eye, 
whose  leaves  are  so  plain  and  petals  so  blue. 
Many  names  increase  the  trouble  of  identification, 
and  confusion  is  made  certain  by  the  use  of  vari- 
ous systems  of  classification.  The  flower  itself 
I  knew,  its  name  I  could  not  be  sure  of — not 
even  from  the  illustration,  which  was  incorrectly 
coloured ;  the  central  white  spot  of  the  flower 
was  reddish  in  the  plate.  This  incorrect  colour- 
ing spoils  much  of  the  flower-picturing  done;  pic- 
tures of  flowers  and  birds  are  rarely  accurate  unless 
hand-painted.  Any  one  else,  however,  would  have 
been  quite  satisfied  that  the  identification  was  right. 
I  was  too  desirous  to  be  correct,  too  conscientious, 
and  thus  a  summer  went  by  with  little  progress. 
If  you  really  wish  to  identify  with  certainty,  and 
have  no  botanist  friend  and  no  magnum  opus  of 
Sowerby  to  refer  to,  it  is  very  difficult  indeed 
to  be  quite  sure.  There  was  no  Sowerby,  no 
Bentham,  no  botanist  friend  —  no  one  even  to 
give  the  common  country  names  j  for  it  is  a  curi- 
—  53  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


ous  fact  that  the  country  people  of  the  time  rarely 
know  the  names  put  down  as  the  vernacular  for 
flowers  in  the  books. 

No  one  there  c»uld  tell  me  the  name  of  the 
marsh-marigold  which  grew  thickly  in  the  water- 
meadows  —  "A  sort  of  big  buttercup,"  that  was 
all  they  knew.  Commonest  of  common  plants 
is  the  "  sauce  alone  "  —  in  every  hedge,  on  every 
bank,  the  whitish-green  leaf  is  found  —  yet  I  could 
not  make  certain  of  it.  If  some  one  tells  you  a 
plant,  you  know  it  at  once  and  never  forget  it, 
but  to  learn  it  from  a  book  is  another  matter;  it 
does  not  at  once  take  root  in  the  mind,  it  has 
to  be  seen  several  times  before  you  are  satisfied 
—  you  waver  in  your  convictions.  The  leaves 
were  described  as  large  and  heart-shaped,  and  to 
remain  green  (at  the  ground )  through  the  winter; 
but  the  colour  of  the  flower  was  omitted,  though 
it  was  stated  that  the  petals  of  the  hedge-mustard 
were  yellow.  The  plant  that  seemed  to  me  to 
be  probably  "  sauce  alone  "  had  leaves  somewhat 
heart-shaped,  but  so  confusing  is  partial  descrip- 
tion that  I  began  to  think  I  had  hit  on  "  ramsons  " 
instead  of  "  sauce  alone,"  especially  as  ramsons  was 
said  to  be  a  very  common  plant.  So  it  is  in  some 
counties,  but,  as  I  afterwards  found,  there  was 
not  a  plant  of  ramsons,  or  garlic,  throughout  the 
whole  of  that  district.  When,  some  years  after- 
•  —54  — 


WILD    FLOWERS 


wards,  I  saw  a  white-flowered  plant  with  leaves 
like  the  lily  of  the  valley,  smelling  of  garlic,  in 
the  woods  of  Somerset,  I  recognised  it  immedi- 
ately. The  plants  that  are  really  common  — 
common  everywhere  —  are  not  numerous,  and  if 
you  are  studying  you  must  be  careful  to  un- 
derstand that  word  locally.  My  "  sauce  alone " 
identification  was  right ;  to  be  right  and  not  cer- 
tain is  still  unsatisfactory. 

There  shone  on  the  banks  white  stars  among  the 
grass.  Petals  delicately  white  in  a  whorl  of  rays  — 
light  that  had  started  radiating  from  a  centre  and 
become  fixed  — shining  among  the  fiowerless  green. 
The  slender  stem  had  grown  so  fast  it  had  drawn 
its  own  root  partly  out  of  the  ground,  and  when 
I  tried  to  gather  it,  flower,  stem,  and  root  came 
away  together.  The  wheat  was  springing,  the 
soft  air  full  of  the  growth  and  moisture,  black- 
birds whistling,  wood-pigeons  nesting,  young  oak- 
leaves  out;  a  sense  of  swelling,  sunny  fulness  in 
the  atmosphere.  The  plain  road  was  made  beauti- 
ful by  the  advanced  boughs  that  overhung  and  cast 
their  shadows  on  the  dust  —  boughs  of  ash-green, 
shadows  that  lay  still,  listening  to  the  nightingale. 
A  place  of  enchantment  in  the  mornings,  where 
was  felt  the  power  of  some  subtle  influence  work- 
ing behind  bough  and  grass  and  bird-song.  The 
orange-golden  dandelion  in  the  sward  was  deeply 
—  55  — 


:     THE    OPEN    AIR 

laden  with  colour  brought  to  it  anew  again  and 
again  by  the  ships  of  the  flowers,  the  humble-bees 
—  to  their  quays  they  come,  unlading  priceless 
essences  of  sweet.,  odours  brought  from  the  East 
over  the  green  seas  of  wheat,  unlading  priceless 
colours  on  the  broad  dandelion  disks,  bartering 
these  things  for  honey  and  pollen.  Slowly  tack- 
ing aslant,  the  pollen  ship  hums  in  the  south 
wind.  The  little  brown  wren  finds  her  way 
through  the  great  thicket  of  hawthorn.  How 
does  she  know  her  path,  hidden  by  a  thousand 
thousand  leaves  ?  Tangled  and  crushed  together 
by  their  own  growth,  a  crown  of  thorns  hangs 
over  the  thrush's  nest ;  thorns  for  the  mother, 
hope  for  the  young.  Is  there  a  crown  of  thorns 
over  your  heart  ?  A  spike  has  gone  deep  enough 
into  mine.  The  stile  looks  farther  away  because 
boughs  have  pushed  forward  and  made  it  smaller. 
The  willow  scarce  holds  the  sap  that  tightens  the 
bark  and  would  burst  it  if  it  did  not  enlarge  to  the 
pressure. 

Two  things  can  go  through  the  solid  oak :  the 
lightning  of  the  clouds  that  rends  the  iron  timber, 
the  lightning  of  the  spring  —  the  electricity  of  the 
sunbeams  forcing  him  to  stretch  forth  and  lengthen 
his  arms  with  joy.  Bathed  in  buttercups  to  the 
dewlap,  the  roan  cows  standing  in  the  golden  lake 
watched  the  hours  with  calm  frontlet ;  watched 
-56- 


WILD    FLOWERS 


the  light  descending,  the  meadows  filling,  with 
knowledge  of  long  months  of  succulent  clover. 
On  their  broad  brows  the  year  falls  gently ;  their 
great,  beautiful  eyes,  which  need  but  a  tear  or  a 
smile  to  make  them  human, —  without  these,  such 
eyes,  so  large  and  full,  seem  above  human  life, 
eyes  of  the  immortals  enduring  without  passion, — 
in  these  eyes,  as  a  mirror,  nature  is  reflected. 

I  came  every  day  to  walk  slowly  up  and  down 
the  plain  road,  by  the  starry  flowers  under  the 
ash-green  boughs ;  ash  is  the  coolest,  softest  green. 
The  bees  went  drifting  over  by  my  head  j  as  they 
cleared  the  hedges  they  passed  by  my  ears,  the 
wind  singing  in  their  shrill  wings.  White  tent- 
walls  of  cloud  —  a  warm  white,  being  full  to 
overflowing  of  sunshine  —  stretched  across  from 
ash-top  to  ash-top,  a  cloud-canvas  roof,  a  tent- 
palace  of  the  delicious  air.  For  of  all  things 
there  is  none  so  sweet  as  sweet  air — one  great 
flower  it  is,  drawn  round  about,  over,  and  enclos- 
ing, like  Aphrodite's  arms ;  as  if  the  dome  of  the 
sky  were  a  bell-flower  drooping  down  over  us,  and 
the  magical  essence  of  it  filling  all  the  room  of 
the  earth.  Sweetest  of  all  things  is  wild-flower 
air.  Full  of  their  ideal  the  starry  flowers  strained 
upwards  on  the  bank,  striving  to  keep  above  the 
rude  grasses  that  pushed  by  them ;  genius  has  ever 
had  such  a  struggle.  The  plain  road  was  made 
—  57  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

beautiful  by  the  many  thoughts  it  gave.     I  came 
every  morning  to  stay  by  the  star-lit  bank. 

A  friend  said,  "  Why  do  you  go  the  same  road 
every  day  ?  Why.x  not  have  a  change  and  walk 
somewhere  else  sometimes?  Why  keep  on  up  and 
down  the  same  place  ?  "  I  could  not  answer  ;  till 
then  it  had  not  occurred  to  me  that  I  did  always 
go  one  way ;  as  for  the  reason  of  it  I  could  not 
tell;  I  continued  in  my  old  mind  while  the  sum- 
mers went  away.  Not  till  years  afterwards  was  I 
able  to  see  why  I  went  the  same  round  and  did  not 
care  for  change.  I  do  not  want  change :  I  want 
the  same  old  and  loved  things,  the  same  wild 
flowers,  the  same  trees  and  soft  ash-green ;  the 
turtledoves,  the  blackbirds,  the  coloured  yellow- 
hammer  sing,  sing,  singing  so  long  as  there  is  light 
to  cast  a  shadow  on  the  dial,  for  such  is  the  measure 
of  his  song,  and  I  want  them  in  the  same  place. 
Let  me  find  them  morning  after  morning,  the  starry- 
white  petals  radiating,  striving  upwards  to  their  ideal. 
Let  me  see  the  idle  shadows  resting  on  the  white 
dust ;  let  me  hear  the  humble-bees,  and  stay  to 
look  down  on  the  rich  dandelion  disk.  Let  me 
see  the  very  thistles  opening  their  great  crowns  —  I 
should  miss  the  thistles ;  the  reed-grasses  hiding 
the  moorhen  ;  the  bryony  bine,  at  first  crudely 
ambitious  and  lifted  by  force  of  youthful  sap 
straight  above  the  hedgerow  to  sink  of  its  own 
-58- 


WILD     FLOWERS 


weight  presently  and  progress  with  crafty  tendrils; 
swifts  shot  through  the  air  with  outstretched  wings 
like  crescent-headed  shaftless  arrows  darted  from 
the  clouds  ;  the  chaffinch  with  a  feather  in  her 
bill ;  all  the  living  staircase  of  the  spring,  step  by 
step,  upwards  to  the  great  gallery  of  the  summer — 
let  me  watch  the  same  succession  year  by  year. 

Why,  I  knew  the  very  dates  of  them  all  —  the 
reddening  elm,  the  arum,  the  hawthorn  leaf,  the 
celandine,  the  may ;  the  yellow  iris  of  the  waters, 
the  heath  of  the  hillside.  The  time  of  the  nightin- 
gale—  the  place  to  hear  the  first  note  ;  onwards  to 
the  drooping  fern  and  the  time  of  the  redwing — the 
place  of  his  first  note,  so  welcome  to  the  sportsman 
as  the  acorn  ripens  and  the  pheasant,  come  to  the 
age  of  manhood,  feeds  himself;  onwards  to  the 
shadowless  days  —  the  long,  shadowless  winter, 
for  in  winter  it  is  the  shadows  we  miss  as  much 
as  the  light.  They  lie  over  the  summer  sward, 
design  upon  design,  dark  lace  on  green  and  gold ; 
they  glorify  the  sunlight  :  they  repose  on  the 
distant  hills  like  gods  upon  Olympus  ;  without 
shadow,  what  even  is  the  sun  ?  At  the  foot  of 
the  great  cliffs  by  the  sea  you  may  know  this,  it 
is  dry  glare;  mighty  ocean  is  dearer  as  the  shadows 
of  the  clouds  sweep  over  as  they  sweep  over  the 
green  corn.  Past  the  shadowless  winter,  when  it 
is  all  shade,  and  therefore  no  shadow  ;  onwards  to 
—  59  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

the  first  coltsfoot  and  on  to  the  seedtime  again  ;  I 
knew  the  dates  of  all  of  them.  I  did  not  want 
change ;  I  wanted  the  same  flowers  to  return  on 
the  same  day,  the  -titlark  to  rise  soaring  from  the 
same  oak  to  fetch  down  love  with  a  song  from 
heaven  to  his  mate  on  the  nest  beneath.  No 
change,  no  new  thing ;  if  I  found  a  fresh  wild 
flower  in  a  fresh  place,  still  it  wove  at  once  into 
the  old  garland.  In  vain,  the  very  next  year  was 
different  even  in  the  same  place  —  that  had  been  a 
year  of  rain,  and  the  flag  flowers  were  wonderful 
to  see;  this  was  a  dry  year,  and  the  flags  not  half 
the  height,  the  gold  of  the  flower  not  so  deep ; 
next  year  the  fatal  billhook  came  and  swept  away 
a  slow-grown  hedge  that  had  given  me  crab-blossom 
in  cuckoo-time  and  hazelnuts  in  harvest.  Never 
again  the  same,  even  in  the  same  place. 

A  little  feather  droops  downwards  to  the  ground 
—  a  swallow's  feather  fuller  of  miracle  than  the 
Pentateuch  —  how  shall  that  feather  be  placed 
again  in  the  breast  where  it  grew  ?  Nothing  twice. 
Time  changes  the  places  that  knew  us,  and  if  we 
go  back  in  after  years,  still  even  then  it  is  not  the 
old  spot;  the  gate  swings  differently,  new  thatch 
has  been  put  on  the  old  gables,  the  road  has  been 
widened,  and  the  sward  the  driven  sheep  lingered 
on  is  gone.  Who  dares  to  think  then  ?  For  faces 
fade  as  flowers,  and  there  is  no  consolation.  So 
—  60  — 


WILD    FLOWERS 

now  I  am  sure  I  was  right  in  always  walking  the 
same  way  by  the  starry  flowers  striving  upwards 
on  a  slender  ancestry  of  stem  ;  I  would  follow  the 
plain  old  road  to-day  if  I  could.  Let  change  be 
far  from  me ;  that  irresistible  change  must  come 
is  bitter  indeed.  Give  me  the  old  road,  the  same 
flowers  —  they  were  only  stitchwort  —  the  old  suc- 
cession of  days  and  garland,  ever  weaving  into  it 
fresh  wild  flowers  from  far  and  near.  Fetch  them 
from  distant  mountains,  discover  them  on  decaying 
walls,  in  unsuspected  corners ;  though  never  seen 
before,  still  they  are  the  same  :  there  has  been  a 
place  in  the  heart  waiting  for  them. 


SUNNY  BRIGHTON 


OME  of  the  old  streets  opening  out  of 
the  King's  Road  look  very  pleasant  on 
a  sunny  day.  They  run  to  the  north,  so 
that  the  sun  over  the  sea  shines  nearly 
straight  up  them,  and  at  the  farther  end,  where  the 
houses  close  in  on  higher  ground,  the  deep  blue 
sky  descends  to  the  rooftrees.  The  old  red  tiles, 
the  red  chimneys,  the  green  jalousies,  give  some 
colour  ;  and  beneath  there  are  shadowy  corners  and 
archways.  They  are  not  too  wide  to  whisper 
across,  for  it  is  curious  that  to  be  interesting  a 
street  must  be  narrow,  and  the  pavements  are  but 
two  or  three  bricks  broad.  These  pavements  are 
not  for  the  advantage  of  foot  passengers  ;  they  are 
merely  to  prevent  cart-wheels  from  grating  against 
the  houses.  There  is  nothing  ancient  or  carved 
in  these  streets,  they  are  but  moderately  old,  yet 
turning  from  the  illuminated  sea  it  is  pleasant  to 
glance  up  them  as  you  pass,  in  their  stillness  and 
shadow,  lying  outside  the  inconsiderate  throng 
walking  to  and  fro,  and  contrasting  in  their  irregu- 
larity with  the  set  facades  of  the  front.  Opposite, 
—62  — 


SUNNY    BRIGHTON  a^gaE^g 

across  the  King's  Road,  the  mastheads  of  the  fishing- 
boats  on  the  beach  just  rise  above  the  rails  of 
the  cliff,  tipped  with  fluttering  pennants,  or  fish- 
shaped  vanes  changing  to  the  wind.  They  have  a 
pulley  at  the  end  of  a  curved  piece  of  iron  for 
hauling  up  the  lantern  to  the  top  of  the  mast 
when  trawling ;  this  thin  curve,  with  a  dot  at  the 
extremity  surmounting  the  straight  and  rigid  mast, 
suits  the  artist's  pencil.  The  gold-plate  shop  — 
there  is  a  bust  of  Psyche  in  the  doorway  —  often 
attracts  the  eye  in  passing ;  gold  and  silver  plate  in 
large  masses  is  striking,  and  it  is  a  very  good  place 
to  stand  a  minute  and  watch  the  passers-by. 

It  is  a  Piccadilly  crowd  by  the  sea — exactly  the 
same  style  of  people  you  meet  in  Piccadilly,  but 
freer  in  dress,  and  particularly  in  hats.  All  fash- 
ionable Brighton  parades  the  King's  Road  twice  a 
day,  morning  and  afternoon,  always  on  the  side  of 
the  shops.  The  route  is  up  and  down  the  King's 
Road  as  far  as  Preston  Street,  back  again  and  up 
East  Street.  Riding  and  driving  Brighton  extends 
its  Rotten  Row  sometimes  to  Third  Avenue, 
Hove.  These  well-dressed  and  leading  people 
never  look  at  the  sea.  Watching  by  the  gold- 
plate  shop,  you  will  not  observe  a  single  glance  in 
the  direction  of  the  sea,  beautiful  as  it  is,  gleaming 
under  the  sunlight.  They  do  not  take  the  slightest 
interest  in  sea,  or  sun,  or  sky,  or  the  fresh  breeze 
-63- 


3K      THE    OPEN    AIR 


calling  white  horses  from  the  deep.  Their  pursuits 
are  purely  "  social,  "  and  neither  ladies  nor  gentle- 
men ever  go  on  the  beach  or  lie  where  the  surge 
comes  to  the  feet.  The  beach  is  ignored ;  it  is 
almost,  perhaps  quite  vulgar ;  or  rather  it  is  entirely 
outside  the  pale.  No  one  rows,  very  few  sail ; 
the  sea  is  not  "  the  thing  "  in  Brighton,  which  is 
the  least  nautical  of  seaside  places.  There  is  more 
talk  of  horses. 

The  wind  coming  up  the  cliff  seems  to  bring 
with  it  whole  armfuls  of  sunshine,  and  to  throw 
the  warmth  and  light  against  you  as  you  linger. 
The  walls  and  glass  reflect  the  light  and  push  back 
the  wind  in  puffs  and  eddies ;  the  awning  flutters  ; 
light  and  wind  spring  upwards  from  the  pavement ; 
the  sky  is  richly  blue  against  the  parapets  overhead ; 
there  are  houses  on  one  side,  but  on  the  other  open 
space  and  sea,  and  dim  clouds  in  the  extreme  dis- 
tance. The  atmosphere  is  full  of  light,  and  gives 
a  sense  of  liveliness  ;  every  atom  of  it  is  in  motion. 
How  delicate  are  the  fore  legs  of  these  thorough- 
bred horses  passing  !  Small  and  slender,  the  hoof, 
as  the  limb  rises,  seems  to  hang  by  a  thread,  yet 
there  is  strength  and  speed  in  those  sinews.  Strength 
is  often  associated  with  size,  with  the  mighty  flank, 
the  round  barrel,  the  great  shoulder.  But  I  mar- 
vel more  at  the  manner  in  which  that  strength  is 
conveyed  through  these  slender  sinews ;  the  huge 
_64_ 


SUNNY    BRIGHTON 

brawn  and  breadth  of  flesh  all  depend  upon  these 
little  cords.  It  is  at  these  junctions  that  the 
wonder  of  life  is  most  evident.  The  succession  of 
well-shaped  horses,  overtaking  and  passing,  cross- 
ing, meeting,  their  high-raised  heads  and  action 
increase  the  impression  of  pleasant  movement. 
Quick  wheels,  sometimes  a  tandem,  or  a  painted 
coach,  towering  over  the  line,  —  so  rolls  the  pro- 
cession of  busy  pleasure.  There  is  colour  in  hat 
and  bonnet,  feathers,  flowers,  and  mantles,  not 
brilliant  but  rapidly  changing,  and  in  that  sense 
bright.  Faces  on  which  the  sun  shines  and  the 
wind  blows  whether  cared  for  or  not,  and  lit  up 
thereby ;  faces  seen  for  a  moment  and  immediately 
followed  by  others  as  interesting ;  a  flowing  gal- 
lery of  portraits ;  all  life,  life !  Waiting  unob- 
served under  the  awning,  occasionally,  too,  I  hear 
voices  as  the  throng  goes  by  on  the  pavement  — 
pleasant  tones  of  people  chatting  and  the  human 
sunshine  of  laughter.  The  atmosphere  is  full  of 
movement,  full  of  light,  and  life  streams  to  and 
fro. 

Yonder,  over  the  road,  a  row  of  fishermen  lean 
against  the  rails  of  the  cliff,  some  with  their  backs 
to  the  sea,  some  facing  it.  "  The  cliff "  is  rather 
a  misnomer,  it  is  more  like  a  sea-wall  in  height. 
This  row  of  stout  men  in  blue  jerseys,  or  copper- 
hued  tan  frocks,  seems  to  be  always  there,  always 

5  -65_ 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

waiting  for  the  tide  —  or  nothing.  Each  has  his 
particular  position  ;  one,  shorter  than  the  rest,  leans 
with  his  elbows  backwards  on  the  low  rail ;  another 
hangs  over  and  loqks  down  at  the  site  of  the  fish- 
market  ;  an  older  man  stands  upright,  and  from 
long  habit  looks  steadily  out  to  sea.  They  have 
their  hands  in  their  pockets  ;  they  appear  fat  and 
jolly,  as  round  as  the  curves  of  their  smacks  drawn 
up  on  the  beach  beneath  them.  They  are  of  such 
that  "  sleep  o'  nights ;  "  no  anxious  ambition  dis- 
turbs their  placidity.  No  man  in  this  world  knows 
how  to  absolutely  do  —  nothing,  like  a  fisherman. 
Sometimes  he  turns  round,  sometimes  he  does  not, 
that  is  all.  The  sun  shines,  the  breeze  comes  up 
the  cliff,  far  away  a  French  fishing  lugger  is  busy 
enough.  The  boats  on  the  beach  are  idle,  and 
swarms  of  boys  are  climbing  over  them,  swinging 
on  a  rope  from  the  bowsprit,  or  playing  at  marbles 
under  the  cliff.  Bigger  boys  collect  under  the 
lee  of  a  smack,  and  do  nothing  cheerfully.  The 
fashionable  throng  hastens  to  and  fro,  but  the  row 
leaning  against  the  railings  do  not  stir. 

Doleful  tales  they  have  to  tell  any  one  who  in- 
quires about  the  fishing.  There  have  been  "  no 
herrings  "  these  two  years.  One  man  went  out 
with  his  smack,  and  after  working  for  hours  re- 
turned with  one  sole.  I  can  never  get  this  one  sole 
out  of  my  mind  when  I  see  the  row  by  the  rails. 
—  66  — 


SUNNY  BRIGHTON^E: 


While  the  fisherman  was  telling  me  this  woeful 
story,  I  fancied  I  heard  voices  from  a  crowd  of  the 
bigger  boys  collected  under  a  smack,  voices  that 
said,  "  Ho  !  ho  !  Go  on  !  you  're  kidding  the 
man  !  "  Is  there  much  "  kidding  "  in  this  busi- 
ness of  fish  ?  Another  man  told  me  (but  he  was 
not  a  smack  proprietor)  that  £50,  £70,  or  .£80 
was  a  common  night's  catch.  Some  people  say 
that  the  smacks  never  put  to  sea  until  the  men 
have  spent  every  shilling  they  have  got,  and  are 
obliged  to  sail.  If  truth  lies  at  the  bottom  of  a 
well,  it  is  the  well  of  a  fishing-boat,  for  there  is 
nothing  so  hard  to  get  at  as  the  truth  about  fish. 
At  the  time  when  society  was  pluming  itself  on 
the  capital  results  attained  by  the  Fisheries  Exhi- 
bition in  London,  and  gentlemen  described  in  the 
papers  how  they  had  been  to  market  and  purchased 
cod  at  sixpence  a  pound,  one  shilling  and  eightpence 
a  pound  was  the  price  in  the  Brighton  fishmongers' 
shops,  close  to  the  sea.  Not  the  least  effect  was 
produced  in  Brighton  ;  fish  remains  at  precisely  the 
same  price  as  before  all  this  ridiculous  trumpeting. 
But  while  the  fishmongers  charge  twopence  each 
for  fresh  herrings,  the  old  women  bring  them  to 
the  door  at  sixteen  a  shilling.  The  poor  who  live 
in  the  old  part  of  Brighton,  near  the  markets,  use 
great  quantities  of  the  smaller  and  cheaper  fish, 
and  their  children  weary  of  the  taste  to  such  a  de- 
—  67  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


gree  that  when  the  girls  go  out  to  service  they  ask 
to  be  excused  from  eating  it. 

The  fishermen  say  they  can  often  find  a  better 
market  by  sending^,  their  fish  to  Paris;  much  of  the 
fish  caught  off  Brighton  goes  there.  It  is  fifty  miles 
to  London,  and  250  to  Paris  ;  how  then  can  this 
be  ?  Fish  somehow  slip  through  ordinary  rules, 
being  slimy  of  surface  ;  the  maxims  of  the  writers 
on  demand  and  supply  are  quite  ignored,  and  there 
is  no  groping  to  the  bottom  of  this  well  of  truth. 

Just  at  the  corner  of  some  of  the  old  streets  that 
come  down  to  the  King's  Road  one  or  two  old  fish- 
ermen often  stand.  The  front  one  props  himself 
against  the  very  edge  of  the  buildings,  and  peers 
round  into  the  broad  sunlit  thoroughfare;  his  brown 
copper  frock  makes  a  distinct  patch  of  colour  at  the 
edge  of  the  house.  There  is  nothing  in  common 
between  him  and  the  moving  throng  :  he  is  quite 
separate  and  belongs  to  another  race  ;  he  has  come 
down  from  the  shadow  of  the  old  street,  and  his 
copper-hued  frock  might  have  come  out  of  the  last 
century. 

The  fishing-boats  and  the  fishing,  the  nets  and  all 
the  fishing  work  are  a  great  ornament  to  Brighton. 
They  are  real  ;  there  is  something  about  them  that 
forms  a  link  with  the  facts  of  the  sea,  with  the 
forces  of  the  tides  and  winds,  and  the  sunlight 
gleaming  on  the  white  crests  of  the  waves.  They 

—  68  — 


SUNNY    BRIGHTON 

speak  to  thoughts  lurking  in  the  mind ;  they  float 
between  life  and  death  as  with  a  billow  on  either 
hand ;  their  anchors  go  down  to  the  roots  of  exist- 
ence. This  is  real  work,  real  labour  of  man,  to 
draw  forth  food  from  the  deep  as  the  plough  draws 
it  from  the  earth.  It  is  in  utter  contrast  to  the 
artificial  work  —  the  feathers,  the  jewellery,  the 
writing  at  desks  of  the  town.  The  writings  of 
a  thousand  clerks,  the  busy  factory  work,  the 
trimmings  and  feathers,  and  counter-attendance  do 
not  touch  the  real.  They  are  all  artificial.  For 
food  you  must  still  go  to  the  earth  and  to  the  sea, 
as  in  primeval  days.  Where  would  your  thousand 
clerks,  your  trimmers,  and  counter-salesmen  be 
without  a  loaf  of  bread,  without  meat,  without 
fish  ?  The  old  brown  sails  and  the  nets,  the  an- 
chors and  tarry  ropes,  go  straight  to  nature.  You 
do  not  care  for  nature  now  ?  Well  !  all  I  can  say 
is,  you  will  have  to  go  to  nature  one  day  —  when 
you  die  :  you  will  find  nature  very  real  then.  I 
rede  you  to  recognise  the  sunlight  and  the  sea,  the 
flowers  and  woods  now . 

I  like  to  go  down  on  the  beach  among  the  fishing- 
boats,  and  to  recline  on  the  shingle  by  a  smack 
when  the  wind  comes  gently  from  the  west,  and  the 
low  wave  breaks  but  a  few  yards  from  my  feet.  I 
like  the  occasional  passing  scent  of  pitch  :  they  are 
melting  it  close  by.  I  confess  I  like  tar:  one's 
-69- 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

hands  smell  nice  after  touching  ropes.  It  is  more 
like  home  down  on  the  beach  here ;  the  men  are 
doing  something  real,  sometimes  there  is  the  clink 
of  a  hammer ;  behind  me  there  is  a  screen  of  brown 
net,  in  which  rents  are  being  repaired  ;  a  big  rope 
yonder  stretches  as  the  horse  goes  round,  and  the 
heavy  smack  is  drawn  slowly  up  over  the  pebbles. 
The  full  curves  of  the  rounded  bows  beside  me  are 
pleasant  to  the  eye,  as  any  curve  is  that  recalls  those 
of  woman.  Mastheads  stand  up  against  the  sky, 
and  a  loose  rope  swings  as  the  breeze  strikes  it ;  a 
veer  of  the  wind  brings  a  puff  of  smoke  from  the 
funnel  of  a  cabin,  where  some  one  is  cooking,  but 
it  is  not  disagreeable,  like  smoke  from  a  house 
chimney-pot ;  another  veer  carries  it  away  again,  — 
depend  upon  it  the  simplest  thing  cooked  there  is 
nice.  Shingle  rattles  as  it  is  shovelled  up  for  ballast 
—  the  sound  of  labour  makes  me  more  comfortably 
lazy.  They  are  not  in  a  hurry  j  nor  "  chivy  "  over 
their  work  either;  the  tides  rise  and  fall  slowly, 
and  they  work  in  correspondence.  No  infernal 
fidget  and  fuss.  Wonder  how  long  it  would  take 
me  to  pitch  a  pebble  so  as  to  lodge  on  the  top  of 
that  large  brown  pebble  there  ?  I  try,  once  now 
and  then. 

Far  out  over  the  sea  there  is  a  peculiar  bank  of 
clouds.     I  was  always  fond  of  watching  clouds ; 
these  do  not  move  much.     In  my  pocket-book  I 
—  70  — 


S  U  N  N  Y    B  R  I  G  H  T  O  N 


see  I  have  several  notes  about  these  peculiar  sea- 
clouds.  They  form  a  band  not  far  above  the 
horizon,  not  very  thick  but  elongated  laterally. 
The  upper  edge  is  curled  or  wavy,  not  so  heavily 
as  what  is  called  mountainous,  not  in  the  least 
threatening  ;  this  edge  is  white.  The  body  of  the 
vapour  is  a  little  darker,  either  because  thicker,  or 
because  the  light  is  reflected  at  a  different  angle. 
But  it  is  the  lower  edge  which  is  singular  :  in  direct 
contrast  with  the  curled  or  wavy  edge  above,  the 
under  edge  is  perfectly  straight  and  parallel  to  the  line 
of  the  horizon.  It  looks  as  if  the  level  of  the 
sea  made  this  under  line.  This  bank  moves  very 
slowly  —  scarcely  perceptibly  —  but  in  course  of 
hours  rises,  and  as  it  rises  spreads,  when  the  extrem- 
ities break  off  in  detached  pieces,  and  these  grad- 
ually vanish.  Sometimes  when  travelling  I  have 
pointed  out  the  direction  of  the  sea,  feeling  sure  it 
was  there,  and  not  far  off,  though  invisible,  on 
account  of  the  appearance  of  the  clouds,  whose 
under  edge  was  cut  across  so  straight.  When 
this  peculiar  bank  appears  at  Brighton  it  is  an 
almost  certain  sign  of  continued  fine  weather,  and 
I  have  noticed  the  same  thing  elsewhere  ;  once 
particularly  it  remained  fine  after  this  appearance 
despite  every  threat  the  sky  could  offer  of  a  storm. 
All  the  threats  came  to  nothing  for  three  weeks, 
not  even  thunder  and  lightning  could  break  it  up, 
—  71  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


—  "  deceitful  flashes,"  as  the  Arabs  say  ;  for,  like 
the  sons  of  the  desert,  just  then  the  farmers  longed 
for  rain  on  their  parched  fields.  To  me,  while  on 
the  beach  among  the  boats,  the  value  of  these 
clouds  lies  in  their  slowness  of  movement,  and 
consequent  effect  in  soothing  the  mind.  Outside 
the  hurry  and  drive  of  life  a  rest  comes  through 
the  calm  of  nature.  As  the  swell  of  the  sea 
carries  up  the  pebbles,  and  arranges  the  largest 
farthest  inland,  where  they  accumulate  and  stay 
unmoved,  so  the  drifting  of  the  clouds,  and  the 
touch  of  the  wind,  the  sound  of  the  surge,  arrange 
the  molecules  of  the  mind  in  still  layers.  It  is 
then  that  a  dream  fills  it,  and  a  dream  is  sometimes 
better  than  the  best  reality.  Laugh  at  the  idea  of 
dreaming  where  there  is  an  odour  of  tar  if  you  like, 
but  you  see  it  is  outside  intolerable  civilisation. 
It  is  a  hundred  miles  from  the  King's  Road,  though 
but  just  under  it. 

There  is  a  scheme  on  foot  for  planking  over 
the  ocean,  beginning  at  the  bottom  of  West  Street. 
An  immense  central  pier  is  proposed,  which  would 
occupy  the  only  available  site  for  beaching  the 
smacks.  If  carried  out,  the  whole  fishing  industry 
must  leave  Brighton,  —  to  the  fishermen  the  injury 
would  be  beyond  compensation,  and  the  aspect 
of  Brighton  itself  would  be  destroyed.  Brighton 
ought  to  rise  in  revolt  against  it. 
—  71  — 


SUNNY    BRIGHTON  SSEH3CS>E^K 

All  Brighton  chimney-pots  are  put  on  with 
giant  cement,  in  order  to  bear  the  strain  of  the 
tremendous  winds  rushing  up  from  the  sea.  Heavy 
as  the  gales  are  they  seldom  do  much  mischief  to 
the  roofs,  such  as  are  recorded  inland.  On  the 
King's  Road  a  plate-glass  window  is  now  and  then 
blown  in,  so  that  on  hurricane  days  the  shutters 
are  generally  half  shut.  It  is  said  that  the  wind 
gets  between  the  iron  shutters  and  the  plate  glass 
and  shakes  the  windows  loose.  The  heaviest 
waves  roll  in  by  the  West  Pier,  and  at  the  bottom 
of  East  Street.  Both  sides  of  the  West  Pier  are 
washed  by  larger  waves  than  can  be  seen  all  along 
the  coast  from  the  Quarter  Deck.  Great  rollers 
come  in  at  the  concrete  groyne  at  the  foot  of  East 
Street.  Exposed  as  the  coast  is,  the  waves  do  not 
convey  so  intense  an  idea  of  wildness,  confusion, 
and  power  as  they  do  at  Dover.  To  see  waves  in 
their  full  vigour  go  to  the  Admiralty  Pier  and 
watch  the  seas  broken  by  the  granite  wall.  Windy 
Brighton  has  not  an  inch  of  shelter  anywhere  in  a 
gale,  and  the  salt  rain  driven  by  the  wind  penetrates 
the  thickest  coat.  The  windiest  spot  is  at  the 
corner  of  Second  Avenue,  Hove ;  the  wind  just 
there  is  almost  enough  to  choke  those  who  face  it. 
Double  windows  —  Russian  fashion  —  are  common 
all  along  the  sea-front,  and  are  needed. 

After  a  gale,  when  the  wind  changes,  as  it 
—  73  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

usually  does,  it  is  pleasant  to  see  the  ships  work  in 
to  the  verge  of  the  shore.  The  sea  is  turbid  and 
yellow  with  sand  beaten  up  by  the  recent  billows, — 
this  yellowness  extends  outwards  to  a  certain  line, 
and  is  there  succeeded  by  the  green  of  clearer 
water.  Beyond  this  again  the  surface  looks  dark 
as  if  still  half  angry,  and  clouds  hang  over  it,  loth 
to  retire  from  the  strife.  As  bees  come  out  of 
their  hives  when  the  rain  ceases  and  the  sun  shines, 
so  the  vessels  which  have  been  lying-to  in  harbour, 
or  under  shelter  of  promontories,  are  now  eagerly 
making  their  way  down  Channel,  and,  in  order  to 
get  as  long  a  tack  and  as  much  advantage  as  pos- 
sible, they  are  brought  to  the  edge  of  the  shallow 
water.  Sometimes  fifteen  or  twenty  or  more  stand 
in ;  all  sizes  from  the  ketch  to  the  three-master. 
The  wind  is  not  strong,  but  that  peculiar  drawing 
breeze  which  seems  to  pull  a  ship  along  as  if  with 
a  tow-rope.  The  brig  stands  straight  for  the 
beach,  with  all  sail  set ;  she  heels  a  little,  not  much  ; 
she  scarcely  heaves  to  the  swell,  and  is  not  checked 
by  meeting  waves  ;  she  comes  almost  to  the  yellow 
line  of  turbid  water,  when  round  she  goes,  and  you 
can  see  the  sails  shiver  as  the  breeze  touches  them 
on  both  surfaces  for  a  moment.  Then  again  she 
shows  her  stern  and  away  she  glides,  while  another 
approaches:  and  all  day  long  they  pass.  There  is 
always  something  shadowy,  not  exactly  unreal,  but 
—  74  — 


LTNNY    BRIGHTON 

shadowy  about  a  ship  ;  it  seems  to  carry  a  romance, 
and  the  imagination  fashions  a  story  to  the  swelling 
sails. 

The  bright  light  of  Brighton  brings  all  things 
into  clear  relief,  giving  them  an  edge  and  outline ; 
as  steel  burns  with  a  flame  like  wood  in  oxygen,  so 
the  minute  particles  of  iron  in  the  atmosphere  seem 
to  burn  and  glow  in  the  sunbeams,  and  a  twofold 
illumination  fills  the  air.  Coming  back  to  the 
place  after  a  journey  this  brilliant  light  is  very 
striking,  and  most  new  visitors  notice  it.  Even 
a  room  with  a  northern  aspect  is  full  of  light,  too 
strong  for  some  eyes,  till  accustomed  to  it.  I  am 
&  great  believer  in  light  —  sunlight  —  and  of  my 
free  will  never  let  it  be  shut  out  with  curtains. 
Light  is  essential  to  life,  like  air ;  life  is  thought ; 
light  is  as  fresh  air  to  the  mind.  Brilliant  sunshine 
is  reflected  from  the  houses  and  fills  the  streets. 
The  walls  of  the  houses  are  clean  and  less  dis- 
coloured by  the  deposit  of  carbon  than  usual  in 
most  towns,  so  that  the  reflection  is  stronger  from 
these  white  serfaces.  Shadow  there  is  none  in 
summer,  for  the  shadows  are  lit  up  by  diffusion. 
Something  in  the  atmosphere  throws  light  down 
into  shaded  places  as  if  from  a  mirror.  Waves 
beat  ceaselessly  on  the  beach,  and  the  undulations  of 
light  flow  continuously  forwards  into  the  remotest 
corners.  Pure  air,  free  from  suspended  matter,  lets 
—  75  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR      : 

the  light  pass  freely,  and  perhaps  this  absence  of 
suspended  material  is  the  reason  that  the  heat  is 
not  so  oppressive  as  would  be  supposed  considering 
the  glare.  Certainly  it  is  not  so  hot  as  London  ; 
on  going  up  to  town  on  a  July  or  August  day  it 
seems  much  hotter  there,  so  much  so  that  one 
pants  for  air.  Conversely  in  winter,  London 
appears  much  colder,  the  thick  dark  atmosphere 
seems  to  increase  the  bitterness  of  the  easterly 
winds,  and  returning  to  Brighton  is  entering  a 
warmer  because  clearer  air.  Many  complain  of 
the  brilliance  of  the  light ;  they  say  the  glare  is 
overpowering,  but  the  eyes  soon  become  acclima- 
tised. This  glare  is  one  of  the  great  recommenda- 
tions of  Brighton  ;  the  strong  light  is  evidently  one 
of  the  causes  of  its  healthfulness  to  those  who  need 
change.  There  is  no  such  glowing  light  elsewhere 
along  the  south  coast ;  these  things  are  very  local. 
A  demand  has  been  made  for  trees,  to  plant  the 
streets  and  turn  them  into  boulevards  for  shade, 
than  which  nothing  could  be  more  foolish.  It  is 
the  dryness  of  the  place  that  gives  it  its  character. 
After  a  storm,  after  heavy  rain  for  days,  in  an  hour 
the  pavements  are  not  only  dry  but  clean  j  no  dirt, 
sticky  and  greasy,  remains.  The  only  dirt  in 
Brighton,  for  three-fourths  of  the  year,  is  that 
made  by  the  water-carts.  Too  much  water  is 
used,  and  a  good  clean  road  covered  with  mud  an 
-76_ 


SUNNY    BRIGHTON*^ 


inch  thick  in  August ;  but  this  is  not  the  fault  of 
Brighton  —  it  is  the  lack  of  observation  on  the  part 
of  the  Cadi  who  ought  to  have  noticed  the  wretched 
condition  of  ladies'  boots  when  compelled  to  cross 
these  miry  promenades.  Trees  are  not  wanted  in 
Brighton ;  it  is  the  peculiar  glory  of  Brighton  to 
be  treeless.  Trees  are  the  cause  of  damp,  they 
suck  down  moisture,  and  fill  a  circle  round  them 
with  humidity.  Places  full  of  trees  are  very  trying 
in  spring  and  autumn  even  to  robust  people,  much 
more  so  to  convalescents  and  delicate  persons. 
Have  nothing  to  do  with  trees,  if  Brighton  is  to 
retain  its  value.  Glowing  light,  dry,  clear,  and 
clean  air,  general  dryness — these  are  the  qualities 
that  rendered  Brighton  a  sanatorium  ;  light  and 
glow  without  oppressive,  moist  heat ;  in  winter  a 
clear  cold.  Most  terrible  of  all  to  bear  is  cold 
when  the  atmosphere  is  saturated  with  water.  If 
any  reply  that  trees  have  no  leaves  in  winter  and 
so  do  not  condense  moisture,  I  at  once  deny  the 
conclusion ;  they  have  no  leaves,  but  they  condense 
moisture  nevertheless.  This  is  effected  by  the 
minute  twigs,  thousands  of  twigs  and  little  branches, 
on  which  the  mists  condense,  and  distil  in  drops. 
Under  a  large  tree,  in  winter,  there  is  often  a  per- 
fect shower,  enough  to  require  an  umbrella,  and  it 
lasts  for  hours.  Eastbourne  is  a  pleasant  place, 
but  visit  Eastbourne,  which  is  proud  of  its  trees,  in 
—  77  — 


JE3E3K      THE    OPEN    AIR 


October,  and    feel   the  damp   fallen   leaves   under 
your  feet,  and  you  would  prefer  no  trees. 

Let  nothing  check  the  descent  of  those  glorious 
beams  of  sunlight  vyhich  fall  at  Brighton.  Watch 
the  pebbles  on  the  beach  ;  the  foam  runs  up  and 
wets  them,  almost  before  it  can  slip  back  the  sun- 
shine has  dried  them  again.  So  they  are  alternately 
wetted  and  dried.  Bitter  sea  and  glowing  light, 
bright  clear  air,  dry  as  dry,  —  that  describes  the 
place.  Spain  is  the  country  of  sunlight,  burning 
sunlight ;  Brighton  is  a  Spanish  town  in  England, 
a  Seville.  Very  bright  colours  can  be  worn  in 
summer  because  of  this  powerful  light;  the  brightest 
are  scarcely  noticed,  for  they  seem  to  be  in  concert 
with  the  sunshine.  Is  it  difficult  to  paint  in  so 
strong  a  light  ?  Pictures  in  summer  look  dull 
and  out  of  tune  when  this  Seville  sun  is  shining. 
Artificial  colours  of  the  palette  cannot  live  in  it. 
As  a  race  we  do  not  seem  to  care  much  for  colour 
or  art  —  I  mean  in  the  common  things  of  daily 
life  —  else  a  great  deal  of  colour  might  be  effectively 
used  in  Brighton  in  decorating  houses  and  wood- 
work. Much  more  colour  might  be  put  in  the  win- 
dows, brighter  flowers  and  curtains;  more,  too,  inside 
the  rooms  ;  the  sober  hues  of  London  furniture  and 
carpets  are  not  in  accord  with  Brighton  light.  Gold 
and  ruby  and  blue,  the  blue  of  transparent  glass,  or 
purple,  might  be  introduced,  and  the  romance  of 
-78- 


SUNNY 

colour  freely  indulged.  At  high  tide  of  summer 
Spanish  mantillas,  Spanish  fans,  would  not  be  out 
of  place  in  the  open  air.  No  tint  is  too  bright  — 
scarlet,  cardinal,  anything  the  imagination  fancies ; 
the  brightest  parasol  is  a  matter  of  course.  Stand, 
for  instance,  by  the  West  Pier,  on  the  Esplanade, 
"looking  east  on  a  full-lit  August  day.  The  sea  is 
blue,  streaked  with  green,  and  is  stilled  with  heat ; 
the  low  undulations  can  scarcely  rise  and  fall  for 
somnolence.  The  distant  cliffs  are  white;  the 
houses  yellowish-white;  the  sky  blue,  more  blue 
than  fabled  Italy.  Light  pours  down,  and  the  bitter 
salt  sea  wets  the  pebbles ;  to  look  at  them  makes 
the  mouth  dry,  in  the  unconscious  recollection  of 
the  saltness  and  bitterness.  The  flags  droop,  the 
sails  of  the  fishing-boats  hang  idle ;  the  land  and 
the  sea  are  conquered  by  the  great  light  of  the  sun. 
Some  people  become  famous  by  being  always  in 
one  attitude.  Meet  them  when  you  will,  they  have 
invariably  got  an  arm  —  the  same  arm  —  crossed 
over  the  breast,  and  the  hand  thrust  in  between  the 
buttons  of  the  coat  to  support  it.  Morning,  noon, 
or  evening,  in  the  street,  the  carriage,  sitting,  reading 
the  paper,  always  the  same  attitude ;  thus  they 
achieve  social  distinction ;  it  takes  the  place  of  a 
medal  or  the  red  ribbon.  What  is  a  general  or 
a  famous  orator  compared  to  a  man  always  in  the 
same  attitude  ?  Simply  nobody,  nobody  knows 
—  79— 


THE     OPEN     AIR 

him,  everybody  knows  the  mono-attitude  man. 
Some  people  make  their  mark  by  invariably  wearing 
the  same  short  pilot  coat.  Doubtless  it  has  been 
many  times  renewed,  still  it  is  the  same  coat.  In 
winter  it  is  thick,  in  summer  thin,  but  identical  in 
cut  and  colour.  Some  people  sit  at  the  same 
window  of  the  reading-room  at  the  same  hour 
every  day,  all  the  year  round.  This  is  the 
way  to  become  marked  and  famous  ;  winning  a 
battle  is  nothing  to  it.  When  it  was  arranged  that 
a  military  band  should  play  on  the  Brunswick 
Lawns,  it  became  the  fashion  to  stop  carriages  in 
the  road  and  listen  to  it.  Frequently  there  were 
carriages  four  deep,  while  the  gale  blew  the  music 
out  to  sea  and  no  one  heard  a  note.  Still  they  sat 
content. 

There  are  more  handsome  women  in  Brighton 
than  anywhere  else  in  the  world.  They  are  so 
common  that  gradually  the  standard  of  taste  in  the 
mind  rises,  and  good-looking  women  who  would 
be  admired  in  other  places  pass  by  without  notice. 
Where  all  the  flowers  are  roses,  you  do  not  see  a 
rose.  They  are  all  plump,  not  to  say  fat,  which 
would  be  rude ;  very  plump,  and  have  the  glow  and 
bloom  of  youth  upon  the  cheeks.  They  do  not 
suffer  from  "  pernicious  anaemia,"  that  evil  blood- 
lessness  which  London  physicians  are  not  unfre- 
quently  called  upon  to  cure,  when  the  cheeks  are 
—  80  — 


E^^SUNNY    BRIGHTON 


white  as  paper  and  have  to  be  rosied  with  minute 
doses  of  arsenic.  They  extract  their  arsenic  from 
the  air.  The  way  they  step  and  the  carriage  of 
the  form  show  how  full  they  are  of  life  and  spirits. 
Sarah  Bernhardt  will  not  come  to  Brighton  if  she 
can  help  it,  lest  she  should  lose  that  high  art  angu- 
larity and  slipperiness  of  shape  which  suits  her  role. 
Dresses  seem  always  to  fit  well,  because  people 
somehow  expand  to  them.  It  is  pleasant  to  see 
the  girls  walk,  because  the  limbs  do  not  drag,  the 
feet  are  lifted  gaily  and  with  ease.  Horse-exercise 
adds  a  deeper  glow  to  the  face ;  they  ride  up  on  the 
Downs  first,  out  of  pure  cunning,  for  the  air  there 
is  certain  to  impart  a  freshness  to  the  features  like 
dew  on  a  flower,  and  then  return  and  walk  their 
horses  to  and  fro  the  King's  Road,  certain  of  ad- 
miration. However  often  these  tricks  are  played, 
they  are  always  successful.  Those  philanthropic 
folk  who  want  to  reform  women's  dress,  and  call 
upon  the  world  to  observe  how  the  present  style 
contracts  the  chest,  and  forces  the  organs  of  the 
body  out  of  place  (what  a  queer  expression  it 
seems,  "  organs  "  !)  have  not  a  chance  in  Brighton. 
Girls  lace  tight  and  "  go  in  "  for  the  tip  of  the  fash- 
ion, yet  they  bloom  and  flourish  as  green  bay  trees, 
and  do  not  find  their  skirts  any  obstacle  in  walking 
or  tennis.  The  horse-riding  that  goes  on  is  a  thing 
to  be  chronicled  ;  they  are  always  on  horseback,  and 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

you  may  depend  upon  it  that  it  is  better  for  them 
than  all  the  gymnastic  exercises  ever  invented.  The 
liability  to  strain,  and  even  serious  internal  injury, 
which  is  incurred  in  gymnastic  exercises,  ought  to 
induce  sensible  people  to  be  extremely  careful  how 
they  permit  their  daughters  to  sacrifice  themselves 
on  this  scientific  altar.  Buy  them  horses  to  ride,  if 
you  want  them  to  enjoy  good  health  and  sound  con- 
stitutions. Nothing  like  horses  for  women.  Send 
the  professors  to  Suakim,  and  put  the  girls  on  horse- 
back. Whether  Brighton  grows  handsome  girls, 
or  whether  they  flock  there  drawn  by  instinct,  or 
become  lovely  by  staying  there,  is  an  inquiry  too 
difficult  to  pursue. 

There  they  are,  one  at  least  in  every  group,  and 
you  have  to  walk,  as  the  Spaniards  say,  with  your 
beard  over  your  shoulder,  continually  looking  back 
at  those  who  have  passed.  The  only  antidote 
known  is  to  get  married  before  you  visit  the  place, 
and  doubts  have  been  expressed  as  to  its  efficacy. 
In  the  south-coast  Seville  there  is  nothing  done  but 
heart-breaking  ;  it  is  so  common  it  is  like  hammer- 
ing flints  for  road-mending;  nobody  cares  if  your 
heart  is  in  pieces.  They  break  hearts  on  horse- 
back, and  while  walking,  playing  tennis,  shopping 
—  actually  at  shopping,  not  to  mention  parties  of 
every  kind.  No  one  knows  where  the  next  dan- 
ger will  be  encountered  —  at  the  very  next  corner 


SUNNY    BRIGHTONSEE 


perhaps.  Feminine  garments  have  an  irresistible 
flutter  in  the  sea-breeze;  feathers  have  a  beckon- 
ing motion.  No  one  can  be  altogether  good  in 
Brighton,  and  that  is  the  great  charm  of  it.  The 
language  of  the  eyes  is  cultivated  to  a  marvellous 
degree ;  as  we  say  of  dogs,  they  quite  talk  with 
their  eyes.  Even  when  you  do  not  chance  to  meet 
an  exceptional  beauty,  still  the  plainer  women  are 
not  plain  like  the  plain  women  in  other  places. 
The  average  is  higher  among  them,  and  they  are 
not  so  irredeemably  uninteresting.  The  flash  of 
an  eye,  the  shape  of  a  shoulder,  the  colour  of  the 
hair  —  something  or  other  pleases.  Women  with- 
out a  single  good  feature  are  often  good-looking  in 
New  Seville  because  of  an  indescribable  style  or 
manner.  They  catch  the  charm  of  the  good- 
looking  by  living  among  them,  so  that  if  any 
young  lady  desires  to  acquire  the  art  of  attrac- 
tion she  has  only  to  take  train  and  join  them. 
Delighted  with  our  protectorate  of  Paphos,  Venus 
has  lately  decided  to  reside  on  these  shores.  Every 
morning  the  girls'  schools  go  for  their  constitutional 
walks  ;  there  seem  no  end  of  these  schools  —  the 
place  has  a  garrison  of  girls,  and  the  same  thing  is 
noticeable  in  their  ranks.  Too  young  to  have  de- 
veloped actual  loveliness,  some  in  each  band  dis- 
tinctly promise  future  success.  After  long  residence 
the  people  become  accustomed  to  good  looks,  and 
-83- 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

do  not  see  anything  especial  around  them,  but  on 
going  away  for  a  few  days  soon  miss  these  pleasant 
faces. 

In  reconstructing  Brighton  station,  one  thing 
was  omitted  —  a  balcony  from  which  to  view  the 
arrival  and  departure  of  the  trains  in  summer  and 
autumn.  The  scene  is  as  lively  and  interesting  as 
the  stage  when  a  good  play  is  proceeding.  So  many 
happy  expectant  faces,  often  very  beautiful  ;  such 
a  mingling  of  colours,  and  succession  of  different 
figures  ;  now  a  brunette,  now  golden  hair :  it  is  a 
stage,  only  it  is  real.  The  bustle,  which  is  not  the 
careworn  anxious  haste  of  business  ;  the  rushing 
to  and  fro  ;  the  greetings  of  friends  ;  the  smiles ; 
the  shifting  of  the  groups,  some  coming,  and  some 
going  —  plump  and  rosy,  —  it  is  really  charming. 
One  has  a  fancy  dog,  another  a  bright-bound 
novel ;  very  many  have  cavaliers ;  and  look  at 
the  piles  of  luggage  !  What  dresses,  what  changes 
and  elegance  concealed  therein  ! — conjurors'  trunks 
out  of  which  wonders  will  spring.  Can  anything 
look  jollier  than  a  cab  overgrown  with  luggage,  like 
huge  barnacles,  just  starting  away  with  its  freight  ? 
One  can  imagine  such  a  fund  of  enjoyment  on  its 
way  in  that  cab.  This  happy  throng  seems  to  ex- 
press something  that  delights  the  heart.  I  often 
used  to  walk  up  to  the  station  just  to  see  it,  and 
left  feeling  better. 

-84_ 


THE    PINE    WOOD 


SPHERE  was  a  humming  in  the  tops  of 
the  young  pines  as  if  a  swarm  of  bees 
were  busy  at  the  green  cones.  They 
were  not  visible  through  the  thick 
needles,  and  on  listening  longer  it  seemed  as  if  the 
sound  was  not  exactly  the  note  of  the  bee  —  a 
slightly  different  pitch,  and  the  hum  was  different, 
while  bees  have  a  habit  of  working  close  together. 
Where  there  is  one  bee  there  are  usually  five  or 
six,  and  the  hum  is  that  of  a  group  ;  here  there 
only  appeared  one  or  two  insects  to  a  pine.  Nor 
was  the  buzz  like  that  of  the  humble-bee,  for  every 
now  and  then  one  came  along  low  down,  flying 
between  the  stems,  and  his  note  was  much  deeper. 
By-and-by,  crossing  to  the  edge  of  the  plantation, 
where  the  boughs  could  be  examined,  being  within 
reach,  I  found  it  was  wasps.  A  yellow  wasp  wan- 
dered over  the  blue-green  needles  till  he  found 
a  pair  with  a  drop  of  liquid  like  dew  between 
them.  There  he  fastened  himself  and  sucked  at  it ; 
you  could  see  the  drop  gradually  drying  up  till  it  was 
gone.  The  largest  of  these  drops  were  generally 
-85- 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


between  two  needles  —  those  of  the  Scotch  fir  or 
pine  grow  in  pairs  —  but  there  were  smaller  drops 
on  the  outside  of  other  needles.  In  searching  for 
this  exuding  turpentine  the  wasps  filled  the  whole 
plantation  with  the  sound  of  their  wings.  There 
must  have  been  many  thousands  of  them.  They 
caused  no  inconvenience  to  any  one  walking  in  the 
copse,  because  they  were  high  overhead. 

Watching  these  wasps,  I  found  two  cocoons  of 
pale  yellow  silk  on  a  branch  of  larch,  and  by  them 
a  green  spider.  He  was  quite  green  —  two  shades, 
lightest  on  the  back,  but  little  lighter  than  the 
green  larch  bough.  An  ant  had  climbed  up  a  pine 
and  over  to  the  extreme  end  of  a  bough  ;  she  seemed 
slow  and  stupefied  in  her  motions,  as  if  she  had 
drunken  of  the  turpentine  and  had  lost  her  intelli- 
gence. The  soft  cones  of  the  larch  could  be  easily 
cut  down  the  centre  with  a  penknife,  showing  the 
structure  of  the  cone  and  the  seeds  inside  each 
scale.  It  is  for  these  seeds  that  birds  frequent  the 
fir  copses,  shearing  off  the  scales  with  their  beaks. 
One  larch  cone  had  still  the  tuft  at  the  top  —  a 
pineapple  in  miniature.  The  loudest  sound  in  the 
wood  was  the  humming  in  the  trees;  there  was 
no  wind,  no  sunshine ;  a  summer  day,  still  and 
shadowy,  under  large  clouds  high  up.  To  this 
low  humming  the  sense  of  hearing  soon  became 
accustomed,  and  it  served  but  to  render  the  silence 


PINE    WOOD  ^^3 


deeper.  In  time,  as  I  sat  waiting  and  listening, 
there  came  the  faintest  far-off  song  of  a  bird  away 
in  the  trees ;  the  merest  thin  upstroke  of  sound, 
slight  in  structure,  the  echo  of  the  strong  spring 
singing.  This  was  the  summer  repetition,  dying 
away.  A  willow-wren  still  remembered  his  love, 
and  whispered  about  it  to  the  silent  fir  tops,  as  in 
after  days  we  turn  over  the  pages  of  letters,  withered 
as  leaves,  and  sigh.  So  gentle,  so  low,  so  tender  a 
song  the  willow-wren  sang  that  it  could  scarce  be 
known  as  the  voice  of  a  bird,  but  was  like  that  of 
some  yet  more  delicate  creature  with  the  heart  of  a 
woman. 

A  butterfly  with  folded  wings  clung  to  a  stalk  of 
grass  ;  upon  the  under  side  of  his  wing  thus  ex- 
posed there  were  buff  spots,  and  dark  dots  and 
streaks  drawn  on  the  finest  ground  of  pearl-grey, 
through  which  there  came  a  tint  of  blue ;  there 
was  a  blue,  too,  shut  up  between  the  wings,  visible 
at  the  edges.  The  spots,  and  dots,  and  streaks 
were  not  exactly  the  same  on  each  wing  ;  at  first 
sight  they  appeared  similar,  but,  on  comparing  one 
with  the  other,  differences  could  be  traced.  The 
pattern  was  not  mechanical ;  it  was  hand-painted 
by  Nature,  and  the  painter's  eye  and  fingers  varied 
in  their  work. 

How  fond  Nature  is  of  spot-markings  !  —  the 
wings  of  butterflies,  the  feathers  of  birds,  the  surface 
-87- 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


of  eggs,  the  leaves  and  petals  of  plants  are  con- 
stantly spotted  ;  so,  too,  fish  —  as  trout.  From 
the  wing  of  the  butterfly  I  looked  involuntarily  at 
the  foxglove  I  had  just  gathered ;  inside,  the  bells 
were  thickly  spotted  —  dots  and  dustings  that 
might  have  been  transferred  to  a  butterfly's  wing. 
The  spotted  meadow-orchis ;  the  brown  dots  on 
the  cowslips;  brown,  black,  greenish,  reddish  dots 
and  spots  and  dustings  on  the  eggs  of  the  finches, 
the  whitethroats,  and  so  many  others  —  some  of 
the  spots  seem  as  if  they  had  been  splashed  on  and 
had  run  into  short  streaks,  some  mottled,  some 
gathered  together  at  the  end  ;  all  spots,  dots,  dustings 
of  minute  specks,  mottlings,  and  irregular  markings. 
The  histories,  the  stories,  the  library  of  knowledge 
contained  in  those  signs  !  It  was  thought  a  won- 
derful thing  when  at  last  the  strange  inscriptions 
of  Assyria  were  read,  made  of  nail-headed  charac- 
ters whose  sound  was  lost ;  it  was  thought  a 
triumph  when  the  yet  older  hieroglyphics  of  Egypt 
were  compelled  to  give  up  their  messages,  and  the 
world  hoped  that  we  should  know  the  secrets  of 
life.  That  hope  was  disappointed ;  there  was 
nothing  in  the  records  but  superstition  and  useless 
ritual.  But  here  we  go  back  to  the  beginning ; 
the  antiquity  of  Egypt  is  nothing  to  the  age  of 
these  signs  —  they  date  from  unfathomable  time. 
In  them  the  sun  has  written  his  commands,  and 


SEE^BKSSSIg  THE    PINE    WOOD    SE^sa^a? 

the  wind  inscribed  deep  thought.  They  were 
before  superstition  began  ;  they  were  composed  in 
the  old,  old  world,  when  the  Immortals  walked  on 
earth.  They  have  been  handed  down  thousands 
upon  thousands  of  years  to  tell  us  that  to-day  we 
are  still  in  the  presence  of  the  heavenly  visitants,  if 
only  we  will  give  up  the  soul  to  these  pure  influ- 
ences. The  language  in  which  they  are  written 
has  no  alphabet,  and  cannot  be  reduced  to  order. 
It  can  only  be  understood  by  the  heart  and  spirit. 
Look  down  into  this  foxglove  bell  and  you  will 
know  that ;  look  long  and  lovingly  at  this  blue 
butterfly's  underwing,  and  a  feeling  will  rise  to 
your  consciousness. 

Some  time  passed,  but  the  butterfly  did  not  move ; 
a  touch  presently  disturbed  him,  and  flutter,  flutter 
went  his  blue  wings,  only  for  a  few  seconds,  to 
another  grass-stalk,  and  so  on  from  grass-stalk  to 
grass-stalk  as  compelled,  a  yard  flight  at  most. 
He  would  not  go  farther ;  he  settled  as  if  it  had 
been  night.  There  was  no  sunshine,  and  under 
the  clouds  he  had  no  animation.  A  swallow  went 
by  singing  in  the  air,  and  as  he  flew  his  forked 
tail  was  shut,  and  but  one  streak  of  feathers  drawn 
past.  Though  but  young  trees,  there  was  a 
coating  of  fallen  needles  under  the  firs  an  inch 
thick,  and  beneath  it  the  dry  earth  touched  warm. 
A  fern  here  and  there  came  up  through  it,  the 
-89- 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


palest  of  pale  green,  quite  a  different  colour  to  the 
same  species  growing  in  the  hedges  away  from  the 
copse.  A  yellow  fungus,  streaked  with  scarlet  as 
if  blood  had  soaked  into  it,  stood  at  the  foot  of  a 
tree  occasionally.  Black  fungi,  dry,  shrivelled, 
and  dead,  lay  fallen  about,  detached  from  the 
places  where  they  had  grown,  and  crumbling  if 
handled.  Still  more  silent  after  sunset,  the  wood 
was  utterly  quiet  ;  the  swallows  no  longer  passed 
twittering,  the  willow-wren  was  gone,  there  was 
no  hum  or  rustle;  the  wood  was  as  silent  as  a 
shadow. 

But  before  the  darkness  a  song  and  an  answer 
arose  in  a  tree,  one  bird  singing  a  few  notes  and 
another  replying  side  by  side.  Two  goldfinches 
sat  on  the  cross  of  a  larch-fir  and  sang,  looking 
towards  the  west,  where  the  light  lingered.  High 
up,  the  larch-fir  boughs  with  the  top  shoot  form  a 
cross  ;  on  this  one  goldfinch  sat,  the  other  was 
immediately  beneath.  At  even  the  birds  often 
turn  to  the  west  as  they  sing. 

Next  morning  the  August  sun  shone,  and  the 
wood  was  all  a-hum  with  insects.  The  wasps 
were  working  at  the  pine  boughs  high  overhead  ; 
the  bees  by  dozens  were  crowding  to  the  bramble 
flowers  ;  swarming  on  them,  they  seemed  so  de- 
lighted ;  humble-bees  went  wandering  among  the 
ferns  in  the  copse  and  in  the  ditches  —  they  some- 
—  90  — 


HE     PINE    WOOD 

times  alight  on  fern  —  and  calling  at  every  purple 
heath-blossom,  at  the  purple  knapweeds,  purple 
thistles,  and  broad  handfuls  of  yellow-weed  flowers. 
Wasp-like  flies  barred  with  yellow  suspended  them- 
selves in  the  air  between  the  pine-trunks  like 
hawks  hovering,  and  suddenly  shot  themselves  a 
yard  forward  or  to  one  side,  as  if  the  rapid  vibra- 
tion of  their  wings  while  hovering  had  accumulated 
force  which  drove  them  as  if  discharged  from  a 
cross-bow.  The  sun  had  set  all  things  in  motion. 
There  was  a  hum  under  the  oak  by  the  hedge, 
a  hum  in  the  pine  wood,  a  humming  among  the 
heath  and  the  dry  grass  which  heat  had  browned. 
The  air  was  alive  and  merry  with  sound,  so  that 
the  day  seemed  quite  different  and  twice  as  pleasant. 
Three  blue  butterflies  fluttered  in  one  flowery 
corner,  the  warmth  gave  them  vigour;  two  had  a 
silvery  edging  to  their  wings,  one  was  brown  and 
blue.  The  nuts  reddening  at  the  tips  appeared 
ripening  like  apples  in  the  sunshine.  This  corner 
is  a  favourite  with  wild  bees  and  butterflies ;  if 
the  sun  shines  they  are  sure  to  be  found  there  at  the 
heath-bloom  and  tall  yellow-weed,  and  among  the 
dry  seeding  bennets  or  grass-stalks.  All  things, 
even  butterflies,  are  local  in  their  habits.  Far  up 
on  the  hillside  the  blue  green  of  the  pines  beneath 
shone  in  the  sun  —  a  burnished  colour;  the  high 
hillside  is  covered  with  heath  and  heather.  Where 
—  91  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

there  are  open  places  a  small  species  of  gorse, 
scarcely  six  inches  high,  is  in  bloom,  the  yellow 
blossom  on  the  extremity  of  the  stalk. 

Some  of  these  gorse  plants  seemed  to  have  a 
different  flower  growing  at  the  side  of  the  stem, 
instead  of  at  the  extremity.  These  florets  were 
cream-coloured,  so  that  it  looked  like  a  new  species 
of  gorse.  On  gathering  it  to  examine  the  thick-set 
florets,  it  was  found  that  a  slender  runner  or  creeper 
had  been  torn  up  with  it.  Like  a  thread  the 
creeper  had  wound  itself  round  and  round  the 
furze,  buried  in  and  hidden  by  the  prickles,  and  it 
was  this  creeper  that  bore  the  white  or  cream  flor- 
ets. It  was  tied  round  as  tightly  as  thread  could  be, 
so  that  the  florets  seemed  to  start  from  the  stem, 
deceiving  the  eye  at  first.  In  some  places  this 
parasite  plant  had  grown  up  the  heath  and  strangled 
it,  so  that  the  tips  turned  brown  and  died.  The 
runners  extended  in  every  direction  across  the 
ground,  like  those  of  strawberries.  One  creeper 
had  climbed  up  a  bennet,  or  seeding  grass-stalk, 
binding  the  stalk  and  a  blade  of  the  grass  together, 
and  flowering  there.  On  the  ground  there  were 
patches  of  grey  lichen ;  many  of  the  pillar-like 
stems  were  crowned  with  a  red  top.  Under  a 
small  boulder  stone  there  was  an  ants'  nest. 
These  boulders,  or,  as  they  are  called  locally, 
"  bowlers,"  were  scattered  about  the  heath.  Many 
—  91  — 


£^3?  THE    PINE    WOOD  s^r 


of  the  lesser  stones  were  spotted  with  dark  dots  of 
lichen,  not  unlike  a  toad. 

Thoughtlessly  turning  over  a  boulder  about  nine 
inches  square,  lo !  there  was  subject  enough  for 
thinking  underneath  it  —  a  subject  that  has  been 
thought  about  many  thousand  years ;  for  this  piece 
of  rock  had  formed  the  roof  of  an  ants'  nest.  The 
stone  had  sunk  three  inches  deep  into  the  dry  soil 
of  sand  and  peaty  mould,  and  in  the  floor  of  the 
hole  the  ants  had  worked  out  their  excavations, 
which  resembled  an  outline  map.  The  largest 
excavation  was  like  England ;  at  the  top,  or  north, 
they  had  left  a  narrow  bridge,  an  eighth  of  an  inch 
wide,  under  which  to  pass  into  Scotland,  and  from 
Scotland  again  another  narrow  arch  led  to  the 
Orkney  Islands ;  these  last,  however,  were  dug  in 
the  perpendicular  side  of  the  hole.  In  the  corners 
of  these  excavations  tunnels  ran  deeper  into  the 
ground,  and  the  ants  immediately  began  hurrying 
their  treasures,  the  eggs,  down  into  these  cellars. 
At  one  angle  a  tunnel  went  beneath  the  heath  into 
further  excavations  beneath  a  second  boulder  stone. 
Without,  a  fern  grew,  and  the  dead  dry  stems  of 
heather  crossed  each  other. 

This  discovery  led  to  the  turning  over  of  another 
boulder  stone  not  far  off",  and  under  it  there  ap- 
peared a  much  more  extensive  and  complete  series 
of  galleries,  bridges,  cellars,  and  tunnels.  In  these 
—  93  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


the  whole  life-history  of  the  ant  was  exposed  at  a 
single  glance,  as  if  one  had  taken  off  the  roofs  of 
a  city.  One  cell  contained  a  dust-like  deposit, 
another  a  collection  resembling  the  dust,  but  now 
elongated  and  a  little  greenish;  a  third  treasury, 
much  larger,  was  piled  up  with  yellowish  grains 
about  the  size  of  wheat,  each  with  a  black  dot  on 
the  top,  and  looking  like  minute  hop-pockets.  Be- 
sides these,  there  was  a  pure  white  substance  in  a 
corridor,  which  the  irritated  ants  seemed  particu- 
larly anxious  to  remove  out  of  sight,  and  quickly 
carried  away.  Among  the  ants  rushing  about 
there  were  several  with  wings  ;  one  took  flight  ; 
one  was  seized  by  a  wingless  ant  and  dragged 
down  into  a  cellar,  as  if  to  prevent  its  taking  wing. 
A  helpless  green  fly  was  in  the  midst,  and  round 
the  outside  galleries  there  crept  a  creature  like  a 
spider,  seeming  to  try  to  hide  itself.  If  the  nest 
had  been  formed  under  glass,  it  could  not  have 
been  more  open  to  view.  The  stone  was  carefully 
replaced. 

Below  the  pine  wood  on  the  slope  of  the  hill  a 
plough  was  already  at  work,  the  crop  of  peas  having 
been  harvested.  The  four  horses  came  up  the 
slope,  and  at  the  ridge  swept  round  in  a  fine  curve 
to  go  back  and  open  a  fresh  furrow.  As  soon  as 
they  faced  down-hill  they  paused,  well  aware  of 
what  had  to  be  done,  and  the  ploughman  in  a 
—94  — 


THE    PINE    WOOD 

manner  knocked  his  plough  to  pieces,  putting  it 
together  again  the  opposite  way,  that  the  earth  he 
was  about  to  cut  with  the  share  might  fall  on  what 
he  had  just  turned.  With  a  piece  of  iron  he 
hammered  the  edge  of  the  share,  to  set  it,  for  the 
hard  ground  had  bent  the  edge,  and  it  did  not  cut 
properly.  I  said  his  team  looked  light ;  they  were 
not  so  heavily  built  as  the  cart-horses  used  in  many 
places.  No,  he  said,  they  did  not  want  heavy 
horses.  "  Dese  yer  thick-boned  hosses  be  more 
clutter-headed  over  the  clots, "  as  he  expressed  it, 
/.  e.  more  clumsy  or  thick-headed  over  the  clods. 
He  preferred  comparatively  light  cart-horses  to 
step  well.  In  the  heat  of  the  sun  the  furze-pods 
kept  popping  and  bursting  open ;  they  are  often 
as  full  of  insects  as  seeds,  which  come  creeping 
out.  A  green  and  black  lady-bird  —  exactly  like 
a  tortoise  —  flew  on  to  my  hand.  Again  on  the 
heath,  and  the  grasshoppers  rose  at  every  step, 
sometimes  three  or  four  springing  in  as  many  di- 
rections. They  were  winged,  and  as  soon  as  they 
were  up  spread  their  vanes  and  floated  forwards. 
As  the  force  of  the  original  hop  decreased,  the 
wind  took  their  wings  and  turned  them  aside  from 
the  straight  course  before  they  fell.  Down  the 
dusty  road,  inches  deep  in  sand,  comes  a  sulphur 
butterfly,  rushing  as  quick  as  if  hastening  to  a 
butterfly  fair.  If  only  rare,  how  valued  he  would 
—  95  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


be  !  His  colour  is  so  evident  and  visible  ;  he  fills 
the  road,  being  brighter  than  all,  and  for  the 
moment  is  more  than  the  trees  and  flowers. 

Coming  so  suddenly  over  the  hedge  into  the 
road  close  to  me,  he  startled  me  as  if  I  had  been 
awakened  from  a  dream  —  I  had  been  thinking  it 
was  August,  and  woke  to  find  it  February  —  for 
the  sulphur  butterfly  is  the  February  pleasure. 
Between  the  dark  storms  and  wintry  rains  there  is 
a  warm  sunny  interval  of  a  week  in  February. 
Away  one  goes  for  a  walk,  and  presently  there 
appears  a  bright  yellow  spot  among  the  furze, 
dancing  along  like  a  flower  let  loose.  It  is  a  sul- 
phur butterfly,  who  thus  comes  before  the  earliest 
chifF-chaff" — before  the  watch  begins  for  the  first 
swallow.  I  call  it  the  February  pleasure,  as  each 
month  has  its  delight.  So  associated  as  this  butter- 
fly is  with  early  spring,  to  see  it  again  after  months 
of  leaf  and  flower  —  after  June  and  July  —  with 
the  wheat  in  shock  and  the  scent  of  harvest  in  the 
land,  is  startling.  The  summer,  then,  is  a  dream ! 
It  is  still  winter  ;  but  no,  here  are  the  trees  in  leaf, 
the  nuts  reddening,  the  hum  of  bees,  and  dry 
summer  dust  on  the  high  wiry  grass.  The  sulphur 
butterfly  comes  twice ;  there  is  a  second  brood ; 
but  there  are  some  facts  that  are  always  new  and 
surprising,  however  well  known.  I  may  say  again, 
if  only  rare,  how  this  butterfly  would  be  prized  ! 
-96- 


THE    PINE    WOOD 


Along  the  hedgerow  there  are  several  spiders'  webs. 
In  the  centre  they  are  drawn  inwards,  forming  a 
funnel,  which  goes  back  a  few  inches  into  the 
hedge,  and  at  the  bottom  of  this  the  spider  waits. 
If  you  look  down  the  funnel  you  see  his  claws 
at  the  bottom,  ready  to  run  up  and  seize  a  fly. 

Sitting  in  the  garden  after  a  walk,  it  is  pleasant  to 
watch  the  eave-swallows  feeding  their  young  on  the 
wing.  The  young  bird  follows  the  old  one  ;  then 
they  face  each  other  and  stay  a  moment  in  the  air, 
while  the  insect  food  is  transferred  from  beak  to 
beak;  with  a  loud  note  they  part.  There  was  a 
constant  warfare  between  the  eave-swallows  and  the 
sparrows  frequenting  a  house  where  I  was  staying 
during  the  early  part  of  the  summer.  The  sparrows 
strove  their  utmost  to  get  possession  of  the  nests 
the  swallows  built,  and  there  was  no  peace  between 
them.  It  is  common  enough  for  one  or  two 
swallows'  nests  to  be  attacked  in  this  way,  but  here 
every  nest  along  the  eaves  was  fought  for,  and  the 
sparrows  succeeded  in  conquering  many  of  them. 
The  driven-out  swallows  after  a  while  began  to 
build  again,  and  I  noticed  that  more  than  a  pair 
seemed  to  work  at  the  same  nest.  One  nest  was 
worked  at  by  four  swallows  ;  often  all  four  came 
together  and  twittered  at  it. 


—  97  — 


NATURE   ON   THE   ROOF 


"w'NCREASED  activity  on  the  housetop  marks 
I  the  approach  of  spring  and  summer  exactly  as 
I  in  the  woods  and  hedges,  for  the  roof  has  its 
J_L  migrants,  its  semi-migrants,  and  its  residents. 
When  the  first  dandelion  is  opening  on  a  sheltered 
bank,  and  the  pale-blue  field  veronica  flowers  in 
the  waste  corner,  the  whistle  of  the  starling  comes 
from  his  favourite  ledge.  Day  by  day  it  is  heard 
more  and  more,  till,  when  the  first  green  spray  ap- 
pears on  the  hawthorn,  he  visits  the  roof  continu- 
ally. Besides  the  roof-tree  and  the  chimney-pot, 
he  has  his  own  special  place,  sometimes  under  an 
eave,  sometimes  between  two  gables ;  and  as  I  sit 
writing,  I  can  see  a  pair  who  have  a  ledge  which 
slightly  projects  from  the  wall  between  the  eave 
and  the  highest  window.  This  was  made  by  the 
builder  for  an  ornament ;  but  my  two  starlings 
consider  it  their  own  particular  possession.  They 
alight  with  a  sort  of  half-scream,  half-whistle  just 
over  the  window,  flap  their  wings,  and  whistle 
again,  run  along  the  ledge  to  a  spot  where  there 
is  a  gable,  and  with  another  note,  rise  up  and  enter 
_98_ 


NATURE    ON    THE    ROOF 

an  aperture  between  the  slates  and  the  wall.  There 
their  nest  will  be  in  a  little  time,  and  busy  indeed 
they  will  be  when  the  young  require  to  be  fed,  to 
and  fro  the  fields  and  the  gable  the  whole  day 
through  ;  the  busiest  and  the  most  useful  of  birds, 
for  they  destroy  thousands  upon  thousands  of  in- 
sects, and  if  farmers  were  wise,  they  would  never 
have  one  shot,  no  matter  how  the  thatch  was  pulled 
about. 

My  pair  of  starlings  were  frequently  at  this  ledge 
last  autumn,  very  late  in  autumn,  and  I  suspect 
they  had  a  winter  brood  there.  The  starling  does 
rear  a  brood  sometimes  in  the  midst  of  the  winter, 
contrary  as  that  may  seem  to  our  general  ideas  of 
natural  history.  They  may  be  called  roof  residents, 
as  they  visit  it  all  the  year  round  ;  they  nest  in  the 
roof,  rearing  two  and  sometimes  three  broods ;  and 
use  it  as  their  club  and  place  of  meeting.  Towards 
July  the  young  starlings  and  those  that  have  for  the 
time  at  least  finished  nesting,  flock  together  and  pass 
the  day  in  the  fields,  returning  now  and  then  to 
their  old  home.  These  flocks  gradually  increase ; 
the  starling  is  so  prolific  that  the  flocks  become 
immense,  till  in  the  latter  part  of  the  autumn  in 
southern  fields  it  is  common  to  see  a  great  elm  tree 
black  with  them,  from  the  highest  bough  down- 
wards, and  the  noise  of  their  chattering  can  be 
heard  a  long  distance.  They  roost  in  firs  or  in 
—  99  — 


THE     OPEN     AIR 

osier-beds.  But  in  the  blackest  days  of  winter, 
when  frost  binds  the  ground  hard  as  iron,  the 
starlings  return  to  the  roof  almost  every  day ; 
they  do  not  whistle  much,  but  have  a  peculiar 
chuckling  whistle  at  the  instant  of  alighting.  In 
very  hard  weather,  especially  snow,  the  starlings 
find  it  difficult  to  obtain  a  living,  and  at  such  times 
will  come  to  the  premises  at  the  rear,  and  at  farm- 
houses where  cattle  are  in  the  yards,  search  about 
among  them  for  insects. 

The  whole  history  of  the  starling  is  interesting, 
but  I  must  here  only  mention  it  as  a  roof  bird. 
They  are  very  handsome  in  their  full  plumage, 
which  gleams  bronze  and  green  among  the  darker 
shades ;  quick  in  their  motions,  and  full  of  spirit ; 
loaded  to  the  muzzle  with  energy,  and  never  still. 
I  hope  none  of  those  who  are  so  good  as  to  read 
what  I  have  written  will  ever  keep  a  starling  in  a 
cage ;  the  cruelty  is  extreme.  As  for  shooting 
pigeons  at  a  trap,  it  is  mercy  in  comparison. 

Even  before  the  starling  whistles  much,  the 
sparrows  begin  to  chirp :  in  the  dead  of  winter 
they  are  silent ;  but  so  soon  as  the  warmer  winds 
blow,  if  only  for  a  day,  they  begin  to  chirp.  In 
January  this  year  I  used  to  listen' to  the  sparrows 
chirping,  the  starlings  whistling,  and  the  chaf- 
finches' "  chink,  chink  "  about  eight  o'clock,  or 
earlier,  in  the  morning:  the  first  two  on  the  roof  j 


NATURE    ON    THE    ROOF    3E=: 

the  latter,  which  is  not  a  roof  bird,  in  some  garden 
shrubs.     As  the  spring  advances,  the  sparrows  sing 

—  it  is  a  short  song,  it  is  true,  but  still  it  is  singing 

—  perched  at  the  edge  of  a  sunny  wall.     There  is 
not  a  place  about  the  house  where  they  will  not 
build  —  under  the   eaves,   on  the   roof,  anywhere 
where  there  is  a  projection  or  shelter,  deep  in  the 
thatch,  under  the  tiles,  in  old  cave-swallows'  nests. 
The  last  place  I  noticed  as  a  favourite  one  in  towns 
is  on  the  half-bricks  left  projecting  in  perpendicu- 
lar rows  at  the  sides  of  unfinished  houses.      Half  a 
dozen  nests  may  be  counted  at  the  side  of  a  house 
on  these  bricks  ;  and  like  the  starlings,  they  rear 
several  broods,  and  some  are  nesting   late  in   the 
autumn.       By   degrees    as    the    summer   advances 
they  leave  the  houses  for  the  corn,  and  gather  in 
vast  flocks,  rivalling  those  of  the  starlings.     At  this 
time  they  desert  the  roofs,  except  those  who  still 
have  nesting  duties.     In  winter  and  in  the  begin- 
ning of  the  new  year,  they  gradually  return  ;  migra- 
tion thus  goes  on  under  the  eyes  of  those  who  care 
to  notice  it.     In  London,  some  who  fed  sparrows 
on    the  roof  found   that  rooks  also  came  for  the 
crumbs  placed  out.     I   sometimes,   see   a   sparrow 
chasing  a  rook,  as  if  angry,  and   trying  to  drive 
it  away  over  the  roofs  where  I  live.     The  thief 
does  not  retaliate,  but,  like  a  thief,  flees  from  the 
scene  of  his  guilt.     This  is  not  only  in  the  breed- 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


ing  season,  when  the  rook  steals  eggs,  but  in  win- 
ter. Town  residents  are  apt  to  despise  the  sparrow, 
seeing  him  always  black;  but  in  the  country  the 
sparrows  are  as  •  clean  as  a  pink ;  and  in  them- 
selves they  are  the  most  animated,  clever  little 
creatures. 

They  are  easily  tamed.  The  Parisians  are  fond 
of  taming  them.  At  a  certain  hour  in  the  Tuileries 
Gardens,  you  may  see  a  man  perfectly  surrounded 
with  a  crowd  of  sparrows  —  some  perching  on  his 
shoulder ;  some  fluttering  in  the  air  immediately 
before  his  face ;  some  on  the  ground  like  a  tribe 
of  followers;  and  others  on  the  marble  seats.  He 
jerks  a  crumb  of  bread  into  the  air  —  a  sparrow  dex- 
terously seizes  it  as  he  would  a  flying  insect;  he  puts 
a  crumb  between  his  lips  —  a  sparrow  takes  it  out 
and  feeds  from  his  mouth.  Meantime  they  keep 
up  a  constant  chirping ;  those  that  are  satisfied  still 
stay  by  and  adjust  their  feathers.  He  walks  on, 
giving  a  little  chirp  with  his  mouth,  and  they  follow 
him  along  the  path — a  cloud  about  his  shoulders, 
and  the  rest  flying  from  shrub  to  shrub,  perching, 
and  then  following  again.  They  are  all  perfectly 
clean  —  a  contrast  to  the  London  sparrow.  I  came 
across  one  of  these  sparrow-tamers  by  chance,  and 
was  much  amused  at  the  scene,  which,  to  any  one 
not  acquainted  with  birds,  appears  marvellous ;  but 
it  is  really  as  simple  as  possible,  and  you  can  repeat 


NATURE    ON    THE    ROOF 

it  for  yourself  if  you  have  patience,  for  they  are  so 
sharp  they  soon  understand  you.  They  seem  to 
play  at  nest-making  before  they  really  begin  ;  tak- 
ing up  straws  in  their  beaks,  and  carrying  them  half- 
way to  the  roof,  then  letting  the  straws  float  away ; 
and  the  same  with  stray  feathers.  Neither  of  these, 
starlings  nor  sparrows,  seem  to  like  the  dark.  Un- 
der the  roof,  between  it  and  the  first  ceiling,  there 
is  a  large  open  space ;  if  the  slates  or  tiles  are  kept 
in  good  order,  very  little  light  enters,  and  this  space 
is  nearly  dark  in  daylight.  Even  if  chinks  admit  a 
beam  of  light,  it  is  not  enough  ;  they  seldom  enter 
or  fly  about  there,  though  quite  accessible  to  them. 
But  if  the  roof  is  in  bad  order,  and  this  space  light, 
they  enter  freely.  Though  nesting  in  holes,  yet 
they  like  light.  The  swallows  could  easily  go  in 
and  make  nests  upon  the  beams,  but  they  will  not, 
unless  the  place  is  well  lit.  They  do  not  like 
darkness  in  the  daytime. 

The  swallows  bring  us  the  sunbeams  on  their 
wings  from  Africa  to  fill  the  fields  with  flowers. 
From  the  time  of  the  arrival  of  the  first  swallow 
the  flowers  take  heart ;  the  few  and  scanty  plants 
that  had  braved  the  earlier  cold  are  succeeded  by  a 
constantly  enlarging  list,  till  the  banks  and  lanes 
are  full  of  them.  The  chimney-swallow  is  usually 
the  forerunner  of  the  three  house-swallows ;  and 
perhaps  no  fact  in  natural  history  has  been  so  much 
—  103  — 


I3K     THE    OPEN    AIR 


studied  as  the  migration  of  these  tender  birds.  The 
commonest  things  are  always  the  most  interesting. 
In  summer  there  is  no  bird  so  common  everywhere 
as  the  swallow,  and  for  that  reason  many  overlook 
it,  though  they  rush  to  see  a  "  white  "  elephant. 
But  the  deepest  thinkers  have  spent  hours  and 
hours  in  considering  the  problem  of  the  swallow  — 
its  migrations,  its  flight,  its  habits;  great  poets  have 
loved  it;  great  artists  and  art-writers  have  curiously 
studied  it.  The  idea  that  it  is  necessary  to  seek 
the  wilderness  or  the  thickest  woods  for  nature  is 
a  total  mistake ;  nature  is  at  home,  on  the  roof, 
close  to  every  one.  Eave-swallows,  or  house- 
martins  (easily  distinguished  by  the  white  bar 
across  the  tail),  build  sometimes  in  the  shelter  of 
the  porches  of  old  houses. 

As  you  go  in  or  out,  the  swallows  visiting  or 
leaving  their  nests  fly  so  closely  as  almost  to  brush 
the  face.  Swallow  means  porch-bird,  and  for  cen- 
turies and  centuries  their  nests  have  been  placed 
in  the  closest  proximity  to  man.  They  might 
be  called  man's  birds,  so  attached  are  they  to  the 
human  race.  I  think  the  greatest  ornament  a 
house  can  have  is  the  nest  of  an  eave-swallow 
under  the  eaves  —  far  superior  to  the  most  elaborate 
carving,  colouring,  or  arrangement  the  architect  can 
devise.  There  is  no  ornament  like  the  swallow's 
nest;  the  home  of  a  messenger  between  man  and 
—  104  — 


NATURE    ON    THE    ROOF 

the  blue  heavens,  between  us  and  the  sunlight,  and 
all  the  promise  of  the  sky.  The  joy  of  life,  the 
highest  and  tenderest  feelings,  thoughts  that  soar  on 
the  swallow's  wings,  come  to  the  round  nest  under 
the  roof.  Not  only  to-day,  not  only  the  hopes  of 
future  years,  but  all  the  past  dwells  there.  Year 
after  year  the  generations  and  descent  of  the 
swallow  have  been  associated  with  our  homes,  and 
all  the  events  of  successive  lives  have  taken  place 
under  their  guardianship.  The  swallow  is  the 
genius  of  good  to  a  house.  Let  its  nest,  then, 
stay ;  to  me  it  seems  the  extremity  of  barbarism, 
or  rather  stupidity,  to  knock  it  down.  I  wish  I 
could  induce  them  to  build  under  the  eaves  of  this 
house ;  I  would  if  I  could  discover  some  means  of 
communicating  with  them. 

It  is  a  peculiarity  of  the  swallow  that  you  cannot 
make  it  afraid  of  you ;  just  the  reverse  of  other 
birds.  The  swallow  does  not  understand  being 
repulsed,  but  comes  back  again.  Even  knocking 
the  nest  down  will  not  drive  it  away,  until  the 
stupid  process  has  been  repeated  several  years. 
The  robin  must  be  coaxed ;  the  sparrow  is  suspi- 
cious, and  though  easy  to  tame,  quick  to  notice  the 
least  alarming  movement.  The  swallow  will  not 
be  driven  away.  He  has  not  the  slightest  fear  of 
man;  he  flies  to  his  nest  close  to  the  window, 
under  the  low  eave,  or  on  the  beams  in  the  out- 
—  105  — 


SES335EE3:      THE    OPEN    AIR 

houses,  no  matter  if  you  are  looking  on  or  not. 
Bold  as  the  starlings  are,  they  will  seldom  do  this. 
But  in  the  swallow  the  instinct  of  suspicion  is  re- 
versed; an  instinct  of  confidence  occupies  its  place. 
In  addition  to  the  eave-swallow,  to  which  I  have 
chiefly  alluded,  and  the  chimney-swallow,  there  is 
the  swift,  also  a  roof-bird,  and  making  its  nest  in 
the  slates  of  houses  in  the  midst  of  towns.  These 
three  are  migrants  in  the  fullest  sense,  and  come  to 
our  houses  over  thousands  of  miles  of  land  and  sea. 
Robins  frequently  visit  the  roof  for  insects, 
especially  when  it  is  thatched ;  so  do  wrens ;  and 
the  latter,  after  they  have  peered  along,  have  a 
habit  of  perching  at  the  extreme  angle  of  a  gable, 
or  the  extreme  edge  of  a  corner,  and  uttering  their 
song.  Finches  occasionally  fly  up  to  the  roofs  of 
country-houses  if  shrubberies  are  near,  also  in 
pursuit  of  insects;  but  they  are  not  truly  roof- 
birds.  Wagtails  perch  on  roofs ;  they  often  have 
their  nests  in  the  ivy,  or  creepers  trained  against 
walls ;  they  are  quite  at  home,  and  are  frequently 
seen  on  the  ridges  of  farmhouses.  Tits  of  several 
species,  particularly  the  great  titmouse  and  the  blue 
tit,  come  to  thatch  for  insects,  both  in  summer  and 
winter.  In  some  districts  where  they  are  common, 
it  is  not  unusual  to  see  a  goatsucker  or  fern-owl 
hawk  along  close  to  the  eaves  in  the  dusk  of  the 
evening  for  moths.  The  white  owl  is  a  roof-bird 
— 106  — 


NATURE    ON    THE    ROOF 

(though  not  often  of  the  house),  building  inside  the 
roof,  and  sitting  there  all  day  in  some  shaded  corner. 
They  do  sometimes  take  up  their  residence  in  the 
roofs  of  outhouses  attached  to  dwellings,  but  not 
often  nowadays,  though  still  residing  in  the  roofs 
of  old  castles.  Jackdaws,  again,  are  roof-birds, 
building  in  the  roofs  of  towers.  Bats  live  in 
roofs,  and  hang  there  wrapped  up  in  their  mem- 
branous wings  till  the  evening  calls  them  forth. 
They  are  residents  in  the  full  sense,  remaining 
all  the  year  round,  though  principally  seen  in  the 
warmer  months ;  but  they  are  there  in  the  colder, 
hidden  away,  and  if  the  temperature  rises,  will 
venture  out  and  hawk  to  and  fro  in  the  midst  of 
the  winter.  Tame  pigeons  and  doves  hardly  come 
into  this  paper,  but  still  it  is  their  habit  to  use  roofs 
as  tree-tops.  Rats  and  mice  creep  through  the 
crevices  of  roofs,  and  in  old  country-houses  hold 
a  sort  of  nightly  carnival,  racing  to  and  fro  under 
the  roof.  Weasels  sometimes  follow  them  indoors 
and  up  to  their  roof  strongholds. 

When  the  first  warm  rays  of  spring  sunshine 
strike  against  the  southern  side  of  the  chimney, 
sparrows  perch  there  and  enjoy  it;  and  again  in 
autumn,  when  the  general  warmth  of  the  atmos- 
phere is  declining,  they  still  find  a  little  pleasant 
heat  there.  They  make  use  of  the  radiation  of 
heat,  as  the  gardener  does  who  trains  his  fruit- 
—  107  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


trees  to  a  wall.  Before  the  autumn  has  thinned 
the  leaves,  the  swallows  gather  on  the  highest  ridge 
of  the  roof  in  a  row  and  twitter  to  each  other ;  they 
know  the  time  is. approaching  when  they  must  de- 
part for  another  climate.  In  winter,  many  birds 
seek  the  thatched  roofs  to  roost.  Wrens,  tits,  and 
even  blackbirds  roost  in  the  holes  left  by  sparrows 
or  starlings. 

Every  crevice  is  the  home  of  insects,  or  used 
by  them  for  the  deposit  of  their  eggs  —  under  the 
tiles  or  slates,  where  mortar  has  dropped  out  be- 
tween the  bricks,  in  the  holes  of  thatch,  and  on 
the  straws.  The  number  of  insects  that  frequent 
a  large  roof  must  be  very  great  —  all  the  robins, 
wrens,  bats,  and  so  on,  can  scarcely  affect  them ; 
nor  the  spiders,  though  these,  too,  are  numerous. 
Then  there  are  the  moths,  and  those  creeping 
creatures  that  work  out  of  sight,  boring  their 
way  through  the  rafters  and  beams.  Sometimes  a 
sparrow  may  be  seen  clinging  to  the  bare  wall  of 
the  house;  tits  do  the  same  thing.  It  is  surpris- 
ing how  they  manage  to  hold  on.  They  are  taking 
insects  from  the  apertures  of  the  mortar.  Where  the 
slates  slope  to  the  south,  the  sunshine  soon  heats 
them,  and  passing  butterflies  alight  on  the  warm 
surface,  and  spread  out  their  wings,  as  if  hover- 
ing over  the  heat.  Flies  are  attracted  in  crowds 
sometimes  to  heated  slates  and  tiles,  and  wasps 
— 108  — 


^ar    NATURE    ON    THE    ROOF    ag=r^ 


will  occasionally  pause  there.  Wasps  are  ad- 
dicted to  haunting  houses,  and,  in  the  autumn, 
feed  on  the  flies.  Floating  germs  carried  by  the 
air  must  necessarily  lodge  in  numbers  against 
roofs  ;  so  do  dust  and  invisible  particles ;  and 
together,  these  make  the  rain-water  collected  in 
water-butts  after  a  storm  turbid  and  dark ;  and 
it  soon  becomes  full  of  living  organisms. 

Lichen  and  moss  grow  on  the  mortar  wherever 
it  has  become  slightly  disintegrated ;  and  if  any 
mould,  however  minute,  by  any  means  accumu- 
lates between  the  slates,  there,  too,  they  spring 
up,  and  even  on  the  slates  themselves.  Tiles 
are  often  coloured  yellow  by  such  growths.  On 
some  old  roofs,  which  have  decayed,  and  upon 
which  detritus  has  accumulated,  wallflowers  may 
be  found ;  and  the  house-leek  takes  capricious  root 
where  it  fancies.  The  stonecrop  is  the  finest  of 
roof-plants,  sometimes  forming  a  broad  patch  of 
brilliant  yellow.  Birds  carry  up  seeds  and  grains, 
and  these  germinate  in  moist  thatch.  Groundsel, 
for  instance,  and  stray  stalks  of  wheat,  thin  and 
drooping  for  lack  of  soil,  are  sometimes  seen  there, 
besides  grasses.  Ivy  is  familiar  as  a  roof-creeper. 
Some  ferns  and  the  pennywort  will  grow  on  the 
wall  close  to  the  roof.  A  correspondent  tells  me 
th'lt  in  Wales  he  found  a  cottage  perfectly  roofed 
with  fern  —  it  grew  so  thickly  as  to  conceal  the 
— 109  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


roof.  Had  a  painter  put  this  in  a  picture,  many 
would  have  exclaimed  :  "  How  fanciful !  He  must 
have  made  it  up ;  it  could  never  have  grown  like 
that !  "  Not  long  after  receiving  my  correspond- 
ent's kind  letter,  I  chanced  to  find  a  roof  near 
London  upon  which  the  same  fern  was  growing 
in  lines  along  the  tiles.  It  grew  plentifully,  but 
was  not  in  so  flourishing  a  condition  as  that  found 
in  Wales.  Painters  are  sometimes  accused  of  call- 
ing upon  their  imagination  when  they  are  really  de- 
picting fact,  for  the  ways  of  nature  vary  very  much  in 
different  localities,  and  that  which  may  seem  impos- 
sible in  one  place  is  common  enough  in  another. 

Where  will  not  ferns  grow  ?  We  saw  one 
attached  to  the  under-side  of  a  glass  coal-hole 
cover ;  its  green  could  be  seen  through  the  thick 
glass  on  which  people  stepped  daily. 

Recently,  much  attention  has  been  paid  to  the 
dust  which  is  found  on  roofs  and  ledges  at  great 
heights.  This  meteoric  dust,  as  it  is  called,  con- 
sists of  minute  particles  of  iron,  which  are  thought 
to  fall  from  the  highest  part  of  the  atmosphere,  or 
possibly  to  be  attracted  to  the  earth  from  space. 
Lightning  usually  strikes  the  roof.  The  whole  sub- 
ject of  lightning-conductors  has  been  re-opened  of 
late  years,  there  being  reason  to  think  that  mistakes 
have  been  made  in  the  manner  of  their  erection. 
The  reason  English  roofs  are  high-pitched  is  not 


NATURE    ON    THE    ROOF 

only  because  of  the  rain,  that  it  may  shoot  off 
quickly,  but  on  account  of  snow.  Once  now 
and  then  there  comes  a  snow-year,  and  those 
who  live  in  houses  with  flat  surfaces  anywhere 
on  the  roof  soon  discover  how  inconvenient  they 
are.  The  snow  is  sure  to  find  its  way  through,  dam- 
aging ceilings,  and  doing  other  mischief.  Some- 
times, in  fine  summer  weather,  people  remark  how 
pleasant  it  would  be  if  the  roof  were  flat,  so  that 
it  could  be  used  as  a  terrace,  as  it  is  in  warmer 
climates.  But  the  fact  is,  the  English  roof,  al- 
though now  merely  copied  and  repeated  without 
a  thought  of  the  reason  of  its  shape,  grew  up 
from  experience  of  severe  winters.  Of  old,  great 
care  and  ingenuity  —  what  we  should  now  call 
artistic  skill  —  were  employed  in  constructing  the 
roof.  It  was  not  only  pleasant  to  the  eye  with 
its  gables,  but  the  woodwork  was  wonderfully 
well  done.  Such  roofs  may  still  be  seen  on 
ancient  mansions,  having  endured  for  centuries. 
They  are  splendid  pieces  of  workmanship,  and 
seen  from  afar  among  foliage,  are  admired  by 
every  one  who  has  the  least  taste.  Draughts- 
men and  painters  value  them  highly.  No  matter 
whether  reproduced  on  a  large  canvas  or  in  a  little 
woodcut,  their  proportions  please.  The  roof  is 
much  neglected  in  modern  houses ;  it  is  either 
conventional,  or  it  is  full  indeed  of  gables,  but 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

gables  that  do  not  agree,  as  it  were,  with  each 
other  —  that  are  obviously  put  there  on  purpose 
to  look  artistic,  and  fail  altogether.  Now,  the  an- 
cient roofs  were  f rue  works  of  art,  consistent,  and 
yet  each  varied  to  its  particular  circumstances,  and 
each  impressed  with  the  individuality  of  the  place 
and  of  the  designer.  The  finest  old  roofs  were 
built  of  oak  or  chestnut ;  the  beams  are  black 
with  age,  and,  in  that  condition,  oak  is  scarcely 
distinguishable  from  chestnut. 

So  the  roof  has  its  natural  history,  its  science 
and  art ;  it  has  its  seasons,  its  migrants  and  resi- 
dents, of  whom  a  housetop  calendar  might  be 
made.  The  fine  old  roofs  which  have  just  been 
mentioned  are  often  associated  with  historic  events 
and  the  rise  of  families  ;  and  the  roof-tree,  like  the 
hearth,  has  a  range  of  proverbs  or  sayings  and 
ancient  lore  to  itself.  More  than  one  great  monarch 
has  been  slain  by  a  tile  thrown  from  the  housetop, 
and  numerous  other  incidents  have  occurred  in 
connection  with  it.  The  most  interesting  is  the 
story  of  the  Grecian  mother  who,  with  her  infant, 
was  on  the  roof,  when,  in  a  moment  of  inattention, 
the  child  crept  to  the  edge,  and  was  balanced  on 
the  very  verge.  To  call  to  it,  to  touch  it,  would 
have  insured  its  destruction  ;  but  the  mother,  with- 
out a  second's  thought,  bared  her  breast,  and  the 
child  eagerly  turning  to  it,  was  saved  ! 


ONE   OF   THE   NEW  VOTERS 


I 

'F  any  one  were  to  get  up  about  half-past  five 
on  an  August  morning  and  look  out  of  an 
eastern  window  in  the  country,  he  would  see 
the  distant  trees  almost  hidden  by  a  white 
mist.  The  tops  of  the  larger  groups  of  elms  would 
appear  above  it,  and  by  these  the  line  of  the  hedge- 
rows could  be  traced.  Tier  after  tier  they  stretch 
along,  rising  by  degrees  on  a  gentle  slope,  the  space 
between  filled  with  haze.  Whether  there  were 
cornfields  or  meadows  under  this  white  cloud  he 
could  not  tell  —  a  cloud  that  might  have  come 
down  from  the  sky,  leaving  it  a  clear  azure.  This 
morning  haze  means  intense  heat  in  the  day.  It  is 
hot  already,  very  hot,  for  the  sun  is  shining  with 
all  his  strength,  and  if  you  wish  the  house  to  be 
cool  it  is  time  to  set  the  sunblinds. 

Roger,  the  reaper,  had  slept  all  night  in  the  cow- 
house, lying  on  the  raised  platform  of  narrow  planks 
put  up  for  cleanliness  when  the  cattle  were  there. 
He  had  set  the  wooden  window  wide  open  and  left 
the  door  ajar  when  he  came  stumbling  in  overnight, 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


long  after  the  late  swallows  had  settled  in  their 
nests  on  the  beams,  and  the  bats  had  wearied  of 
moth  catching.  One  of  the  swallows  twittered  a 
little,  as  much  as  to  say  to  his  mate,  "  My  love,  it 
is  only  a  reaper,  we  need  not  be  afraid,"  and  all 
was  silence  and  darkness.  Roger  did  not  so  much 
as  take  off  his  boots,  but  flung  himself  on  the  boards 
crash,  curled  himself  up  hedgehog  fashion  with  some 
old  sacks,  and  immediately  began  to  breathe  heavily. 
He  had  no  difficulty  in  sleeping,  first  because  his 
muscles  had  been  tried  to  the  utmost,  and  next 
because  his  skin  was  full  to  the  brim,  not  of  jolly 
"  good  ale  and  old,"  but  of  the  very  smallest  and 
poorest  of  wish-washy  beer.  In  his  own  words,  it 
"blowed  him  up  till  he  very  nigh  bust."  Now  the 
great  authorities  on  dyspepsia,  so  eagerly  studied 
by  the  wealthy  folk  whose  stomachs  are  deranged, 
tell  us  that  a  very  little  flatulence  will  make  the 
heart  beat  irregularly  and  cause  the  most  distressing 
symptoms. 

Roger  had  swallowed  at  least  a  gallon  of  a  liquid 
chemically  designed,  one  might  say,  on  purpose  to 
utterly  upset  the  internal  economy.  Harvest  beer 
is  probably  the  vilest  drink  in  the  world.  The  men 
say  it  is  made  by  pouring  muddy  water  into  empty 
casks  returned  sour  from  use,  and  then  brushing 
them  round  and  round  inside  with  a  besom.  This 
liquid  leaves  a  stickiness  on  the  tongue  and  a  harsh 
—  114— 


ONE    OF    THE    NEW    VOTERS2E- 


feeling  at  the  back  of  the  mouth  which  soon  turns 
to  thirst,  so  that  having  once  drunk  a  pint  the 
drinker  must  go  on  drinking.  The  peculiar  dryness 
caused  by  this  beer  is  not  like  any  other  throat 
drought  —  worse  than  dust,  or  heat,  or  thirst  from 
work;  there  is  no  satisfying  it.  With  it  there  go 
down  the  germs  of  fermentation,  a  sour,  yeasty,  and, 
as  it  were,  secondary  fermentation  j  not  that  kind 
which  is  necessary  to  make  beer,  but  the  kind  that 
unmakes  and  spoils  beer.  It  is  beer  rotting  and 
decomposing  in  the  stomach.  Violent  diarrhoea 
often  follows,  and  then  the  exhaustion  thus  caused 
induces  the  men  to  drink  more  in  order  to  regain 
the  strength  necessary  to  do  their  work.  The 
great  heat  of  the  sun  and  the  heat  of  hard  labour, 
the  strain  and  perspiration,  of  course  try  the  body 
and  weaken  the  digestion.  To  distend  the  stomach 
with  half  a  gallon  of  this  liquor,  expressly  com- 
pounded to  ferment,  is  about  the  most  murderous 
thing  a  man  could  do  —  murderous  because  it 
exposes  him  to  the  risk  of  sunstroke.  So  vile  a 
drink  there  is  not  elsewhere  in  the  world;  arrack, 
and  potato-spirit,  and  all  the  other  killing  extracts 
of  the  distiller  are  not  equal  to  it.  Upon  this 
abominable  mess  the  golden  harvest  of  English 
fields  is  gathered  in. 

Some  people  have  in  consequence  endeavoured 
to  induce  the  harvesters  to  accept  a  money  payment 
—  115  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


in  place  of  beer,  and  to  a  certain  extent  successfully. 
Even  then,  however,  they  must  drink  something. 
Many  manage  on  weak  tea  after  a  fashion,  but 
not  so  well  as  the  abstainers  would  have  us  think. 
Others  have  brewed  for  their  men  a  miserable 
stuff  in  buckets,  an  infusion  of  oatmeal,  and  got  a 
few  to  drink  it  ;  but  English  labourers  will  never 
drink  oatmeal-water  unless  they  are  paid  to  do  it. 
If  they  are  paid  extra  beer-money  and  oatmeal- 
water  is  made  for  them  gratis,  some  will,  of  course, 
imbibe  it,  especially  if  they  see  that  thereby  they 
may  obtain  little  favours  from  their  employer  by 
yielding  to  his  fad.  By  drinking  the  crotchet 
perhaps  they  may  get  a  present  now  and  then  — 
food  for  themselves,  cast-off  clothes  for  their  fami- 
lies, and  so  on.  For  it  is  a  remarkable  feature  of 
human  natural  history,  the  desire  to  proselytise. 
The  spectacle  of  John  Bull  —  jovial  John  Bull  — 
offering  his  men  a  bucket  of  oatmeal  liquor  is  not 
a  pleasant  one.  Such  a  John  Bull  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  himself. 

The  truth  is  the  English  farmer's  man  was  and 
is,  and  will  be,  a  drinker  of  beer.  Neither  tea, 
nor  oatmeal,  nor  vinegar  and  water  (coolly  recom- 
mended by  indoor  folk)  will  do  for  him.  His  nat- 
ural constitution  rebels  against  such  "  peevish  " 
drink.  In  winter  he  wants  beer  against  the  cold 
and  the  frosty  rime  and  the  heavy  raw  mist  that 


ONE    OF    THE    NEW 

hangs  about  the  hollows;  in  spring  and  autumn 
against  the  rain,  and  in  summer  to  support  him 
under  the  pressure  of  additional  work  and  pro- 
longed hours.  Those  who  really  wish  well  to  the 
labourer  cannot  do  better  than  see  that  he  really 
has  beer  to  drink  —  real  beer,  genuine  brew  of 
malt  and  hops,  a  moderate  quantity  of  which  will 
supply  force  to  his  thews  and  sinews,  and  will  not 
intoxicate  or  injure.  If  by  giving  him  a  small 
money  payment  in  lieu  of  such  large  quantities  you 
can  induce  him  to  be  content  with  a  little,  so  much 
the  better.  If  an  employer  followed  that  plan,  and 
at  the  same  time  once  or  twice  a  day  sent  out  a  mod- 
erate supply  of  genuine  beer  as  a  gift  to  his  men, 
he  would  do  them  all  the  good  in  the  world,  and 
at  the  same  time  obtain  for  himself  their  goodwill 
and  hearty  assistance,  that  hearty  work  which  is 
worth  so  much. 

Roger  breathed  heavily  in  his  sleep  in  the  cow- 
house, because  the  vile  stuff  he  had  taken  puffed 
him  up  and  obstructed  nature.  The  tongue  in  his 
open  mouth  became  parched  and  cracked,  swollen 
and  dry ;  he  slept,  indeed,  but  he  did  not  rest ;  he 
groaned  heavily  at  times  and  rolled  aside.  Once 
he  awoke  choking  —  he  could  not  swallow,  his 
tongue  was  so  dry  and  large ;  he  sat  up,  swore, 
and  again  lay  down.  The  rats  in  the  sties  had 
already  discovered  that  a  man  slept  in  the  cow- 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


house,  a  place  they  rarely  visited,  as  there  was 
nothing  there  to  eat ;  how  they  found  it  out  no 
one  knows.  They  are  clever  creatures,  the  de- 
spised rats.  They  came  across  in  the  night  and 
looked  under  his  bed,  supposing  that  he  might 
have  eaten  his  bread-and-cheese  for  supper  there, 
and  that  fragments  might  have  dropped  between 
the  boards.  There  were  none.  They  mounted 
the  boards  and  sniffed  round  him  ;  they  would  have 
stolen  the  food  from  his  very  pocket  if  it  had  been 
there.  Nor  could  they  find  a  bundle  in  a  hand- 
kerchief, which  they  would  have  gnawn  through 
speedily.  Not  a  scrap  of  food  was  there  to  be 
smelt  at,  so  they  left  him.  Roger  had  indeed  gone 
supperless,  as  usual ;  his  supper  he  had  swilled  and 
not  eaten.  His  own  fault ;  he  should  have  exer- 
cised self-control.  Well,  I  don't  know  ;  let  us 
consider  further  before  we  judge. 

In  houses  the  difficulty  often  is  to  get  the  servants 
up  in  the  morning  ;  one  cannot  wake,  and  the  rest 
sleep  too  sound  — much  the  same  thing;  yet  they 
have  clocks  and  alarums.  The  reapers  are  never 
behind.  Roger  got  off  his  planks,  shook  himself, 
went  outside  the  shed,  and  tightened  his  shoelaces 
in  the  bright  light.  His  rough  hair  he  just  pushed 
back  from  his  forehead,  and  that  was  his  toilet. 
His  dry  throat  sent  him  to  the  pump,  but  he  did 
not  swallow  much  of  the  water  —  he  washed  his 
— 118— 


ONE    OF    THE    NEW    VOTERS 

mouth  out,  and  that  was  enough ;  and  so  without 
breakfast  he  went  to  his  work.  Looking  down 
from  the  stile  on  the  high  ground,  there  seemed  to 
bo  a  white  cloud  resting  on  the  valley,  through 
which  the  tops  of  the  high  trees  penetrated  ;  the 
hedgerows  beneath  were  concealed,  and  their  course 
could  only  be  traced  by  the  upper  branches  of 
the  elms.  Under  this  cloud  the  wheatfields  were 
blotted  out ;  there  seemed  neither  corn  nor  grass, 
work  for  man  nor  food  for  animal ;  there  could  be 
nothing  doing  there  surely.  In  the  stillness  of  the 
August  morning,  without  song  of  bird,  the  sun, 
shining  brilliantly  high  above  the  mist,  seemed  to 
be  the  only  living  thing,  to  possess  the  whole  and 
reign  above  absolute  peace.  It  is  a  curious  sight 
to  see  the  early  harvest  morn  —  all  hushed  under 
the  burning  sun,  a  morn  that  you  know  is  full  of 
life  and  meaning,  yet  quiet  as  if  man's  foot  had 
never  trodden  the  land.  Only  the  sun  is  there, 
rolling  on  his  endless  way. 

Roger's  head  was  bound  with  brass,  but  had  it 
not  been  he  would  not  have  observed  anything  in 
the  aspect  of  the  earth.  Had  a  brazen  band  been 
drawn  firmly  round  his  forehead,  it  could  not  have 
felt  more  stupefied.  His  eyes  blinked  in  the  sun- 
light ;  every  now  and  then  he  stopped  to  save  him- 
self from  staggering  ;  he  was  not  in  a  condition  to 
think.  It  would  have  mattered  not  at  all  if  his  head 
—  119  — 


THE     OPEN     AIR      3£^sa£EZ3S 

had  been  clear;  earth,  sky,  and  sun  were  nothing 
to  him  ;  he  knew  the  footpath,  and  saw  that  the 
day  would  be  fine  and  hot,  and  that  was  sufficient 
for  him,  because  .his  eyes  had  never  been  opened. 

The  reaper  had  risen  early  to  his  labour,  but  the 
birds  had  preceded  him  hours.  Before  the  sun  was 
up  the  swallows  had  left  their  beams  in  the  cow- 
shed and  twittered  out  into  the  air.  The  rooks  and 
wood-pigeons  and  doves  had  gone  to  the  corn,  the 
blackbird  to  the  stream,  the  flinch  to  the  hedgerow, 
the  bees  to  the  heath  on  the  hills,  the  humble-bees 
to  the  clover  in  the  plain.  Butterflies  rose  from 
the  flowers  by  the  footpath,  and  fluttered  before 
him  to  and  fro  and  round  and  back  again  to  the 
place  whence  they  had  been  driven.  Goldfinches 
tasting  the  first  thistledown  rose  from  the  corner 
where  the  thistles  grew  thickly.  A  hundred  spar- 
rows came  rushing  up  into  the  hedge,  suddenly  fill- 
ing the  boughs  with  brown  fruit  j  they  chirped  and 
quarrelled  in  their  talk,  and  rushed  away  again  back 
to  the  corn  as  he  stepped  nearer.  The  boughs  were 
stripped  of  their  winged  brown  berries  as  quickly  as 
they  had  grown.  Starlings  ran  before  the  cows 
feeding  in  the  aftermath,  so  close  to  their  mouths 
as  to  seem  in  danger  of  being  licked  up  by  their 
broad  tongues.  All  creatures,  from  the  tiniest  in- 
sect upward,  were  in  reality  busy  under  that  cur- 
tain of  white-heat  haze.  It  looked  so  still,  so  quiet, 


ONE    OF    THE    NEW    VOTERS 

from  afar;  entering  it  and  passing  among  the  fields, 
all  that  lived  was  found  busy  at  its  long  day's  work. 
Roger  did  not  interest  himself  in  these  things,  in 
the  wasps  that  left  the  gate  as  he  approached, — 
they  were  making  papier-mache  from  the  wood  of 
the  top  bar, —  in  the  bright  poppies  brushing  against 
his  drab  unpolished  boots,  in  the  hue  of  the  wheat 
or  the  white  convolvulus ;  they  were  nothing  to 
him. 

Why  should  they  be  ?  His  life  was  work  with- 
out skill  or  thought,  the  work  of  the  horse,  of  the 
crane  that  lifts  stones  and  timber.  His  food  was 
rough,  his  drink  rougher,  his  lodging  dry  planks. 
His  books  were  —  none ;  his  picture-gallery  a 
coloured  print  at  the  alehouse  —  a  dog,  dead,  by  a 
barrel,  "Trust  is  dead;  Bad  Pay  killed  him." 
Of  thought  he  thought  nothing ;  of  hope  his  idea 
was  a  shilling  a  week  more  wages  ;  of  any  future 
for  himself  of  comfort  such  as  even  a  good  cottage 
can  give  —  of  any  future  whatever  —  he  had  no 
more  conception  than  the  horse  in  the  shafts  of  the 
waggon.  A  human  animal  simply  in  all  this,  yet 
if  you  reckoned  upon  him  as  simply  an  animal  — 
as  has  been  done  these  centuries  —  you  would  now 
be  mistaken.  But  why  should  he  note  the  colour 
of  the  butterfly,  the  bright  light  of  the  sun,  the  hue 
of  the  wheat  ?  This  loveliness  gave  him  no  cheese 
for  breakfast ;  of  beauty  in  itself,  for  itself,  he  had 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


no  idea.  How  should  he  ?  To  many  of  us  the 
harvest  —  the  summer  —  is  a  time  of  joy  in  light 
and  colour ;  to  him  it  was  a  time  for  adding  yet 
another  crust  of  hardness  to  the  thick  skin  of  his 
hands. 

Though  the  haze  looked  like  a  mist,  it  was 
perfectly  dry  ;  the  wheat  was  as  dry  as  noon  ;  not 
a  speck  of  dew,  and  the  pimpernels  wide  open  for 
a  burning  day.  The  reaping-machine  began  to 
rattle  as  he  came  up,  and  work  was  ready  for  him. 
At  breakfast-time  his  fellows  lent  him  a  quarter  of 
a  loaf,  some  young  onions,  and  a  drink  from  their 
tea.  He  ate  little,  and  the  tea  slipped  from  his 
hot  tongue  like  water  from  the  bars  of  a  grate  ;  his 
tongue  was  like  the  heated  iron  the  housemaid  tries 
before  using  it  on  the  linen.  As  the  reaping- 
machine  went  about  the  gradually  decreasing  square 
of  corn,  narrowing  it  by  a  broad  band  each  time, 
the  wheat  fell  flat  on  the  short  stubble.  Roger 
stooped,  and,  gathering  sufficient  together,  took  a 
few  straws,  knotted  them  to  another  handful  as 
you  might  tie  two  pieces  of  string,  and  twisted  the 
band  round  the  sheaf.  He  worked  stooping  to 
gather  the  wheat,  bending  to  tie  it  in  sheaves ; 
stooping,  bending, —  stooping,  bending,  —  and  so 
across  the  field.  Upon  his  head  and  back  the 
fiery  sun  poured  down  the  ceaseless  and  increasing 
heat  of  the  August  day.  His  face  grew  red,  his 


ONE    OF    THE    NEW    VOTERS 

neck  black ;  the  drought  of  the  dry  ground  rose  up 
and  entered  his  mouth  and  nostrils,  a  warm  air 
seemed  to  rise  from  the  earth  and  fill  his  chest. 
His  body  ached  from  the  ferment  of  the  vile  beer, 
his  back  ached  with  stooping,  his  forehead  was 
bound  tight  with  a  brazen  band.  They  brought 
some  beer  at  last ;  it  was  like  the  spring  in  the 
desert  to  him.  The  vicious  liquor  —  "  a  hair  of 
the  dog  that  bit  him  " —  sank  down  his  throat, 
grateful  and  refreshing  to  his  disordered  palate  as 
if  he  had  drunk  the  very  shadow  of  green  boughs. 
Good  ale  would  have  seemed  nauseous  to  him  at 
that  moment,  his  taste  and  stomach  destroyed  by  so 
many  gallons  of  this.  He  was  "  pulled  together," 
and  worked  easier ;  the  slow  hours  went  on,  and  it 
was  luncheon.  He  could  have  borrowed  more 
food,  but  he  was  content  instead  with  a  screw  of 
tobacco  for  his  pipe  and  his  allowance  of  beer. 

They  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  field.  There 
were  no  trees  for  shade ;  they  had  been  cut  down 
as  injurious  to  corn,  but  there  were  a  few  maple 
bushes  and  thin  ash  sprays,  which  seemed  better 
than  the  open.  The  bushes  cast  no  shade  at  all, 
the  sun  being  so  nearly  overhead,  but  they  formed 
a  kind  of  enclosure,  an  open-air  home,  for  men 
seldom  sit  down  if  they  can  help  it  on  the  bare 
and  level  plain ;  they  go  to  the  bushes,  to  the 
corner,  or  even  to  some  hollow.  It  is  not  really 
—  123  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

any  advantage ;  it  is  habit ;  or  shall  we  not  rather 
say  that  it  is  nature  ?  Brought  back  as  it  were  in, 
the  open  field  to  the  primitive  conditions  of  life, 
they  resumed  the  same  instincts  that  controlled 
man  in  the  ages  past.  Ancient  man  sought  the 
shelter  of  trees  and  banks,  of  caves  and  hollows, 
and  so  the  labourers  under  somewhat  the  same 
conditions  came  to  the  corner  where  the  bushes 
grew.  There  they  left  their  coats  and  slung  up 
their  luncheon-bundles  to  the  branches  ;  there  the 
children  played  and  took  charge  of  the  infants ; 
there  the  women  had  their  hearth  and  hung  their 
kettle  over  a  fire  of  sticks. 


II 

IN  August  the  unclouded  sun,  when  there  is  no 
wind,  shines  as  fervently  in  the  harvest-field  as  in 
Spain.  It  is  doubtful  if  the  Spanish  people  feel  the 
heat  so  much  as  our  reapers  ;  they  have  their  siesta ; 
their  habits  have  become  attuned  to  the  sun,  and 
it  is  no  special  strain  upon  them.  In  India  our 
troops  are  carefully  looked  after  in  the  hot  weather, 
and  everything  made  as  easy  for  them  as  possible; 
without  care  and  special  clothing  and  coverings  for 
the  head  they  could  not  long  endure.  The  Eng- 
lish simoon  of  heat  drops  suddenly  on  the  heads  of 
the  harvesters  and  finds  them  entirely  unprepared ; 
—  124  — 


OF    THE    NEW    VOTERS 

they  have  not  so  much  as  a  cooling  drink  ready ; 
they  face  it,  as  it  were,  unarmed.  The  sun  spares 
not ;  it  is  fire  from  morn  till  night.  Afar  in  the 
town  the  sunblinds  are  up,  there  is  a  tent  on  the 
lawn  in  the  shade,  people  drink  claret-cup  and  use 
ice  ;  ice  has  never  been  seen  in  the  harvest-field. 
Indoors  they  say  they  are  melting  lying  on  a  sofa 
in  a  darkened  room,  made  dusky  to  keep  out  the 
heat.  The  fire  falls  straight  from  the  sky  on  the 
heads  of  the  harvesters  —  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren—  and  the  white-hot  light  beats  up  again  from 
the  dry  straw  and  the  hard  ground. 

The  tender  flowers  endure;  the  wide  petal  of 
the  poppy,  which  withers  between  the  fingers,  lies 
afloat  on  the  air  as  the  lilies  on  water,  afloat  and 
open  to  the  weight  of  the  heat.  The  red  pim- 
pernel looks  straight  up  at  the  sky  from  the  early 
morning  till  its  hour  of  closing  in  the  afternoon. 
Pale  blue  speedwell  does  not  fade ;  the  pale  blue 
stands  the  warmth  equally  with  the  scarlet.  Far 
in  the  thick  wheat  the  streaked  convolvulus  winds 
up  the  stalks,  and  is  not  smothered  for  want  of  air 
though  wrapped  and  circled  with  corn.  Beautiful 
though  they  are,  they  are  bloodless,  not  sensitive ; 
we  have  given  to  them  our  feelings,  they  do  not 
share  our  pain  or  pleasure.  Heat  has  gone  into 
the  hollow  stalks  of  the  wheat  and  down  the  yel- 
low tubes  to  the  roots,  drying  them  in  the  earth. 
—  125  — 


THE     OPEN     AIR 


Heat  has  dried  the  leaves  upon  the  hedge,  and  they 
touch  rough  —  dusty  rough,  as  books  touch  that 
have  been  lying  unused ;  the  plants  on  the  bank 
are  drying  up  ancl  turning  white.  Heat  has  gone 
down  into  the  cracks  of  the  ground ;  the  bar  of 
the  stile  is  so  dry  and  powdery  in  the  crevices  that 
if  a  reaper  chanced  to  drop  a  match  on  it  there 
would  seem  risk  of  fire.  The  still  atmosphere  is 
laden  with  heat,  and  does  not  move  in  the  corner 
of  the  field  between  the  bushes. 

Roger  the  reaper  smoked  out  his  tobacco ;  the 
children  played  round  and  watched  for  scraps  of 
food;  the  women  complained  of  the  heat;  the 
men  said  nothing.  It  is  seldom  that  a  labourer 
grumbles  much  at  the  weather,  except  as  interfering 
with  his  work.  Let  the  heat  increase,  so  it  would 
only  keep  fine.  The  fire  in  the  sky  meant  money. 
Work  went  on  again ;  Roger  had  now  to  go  to 
another  field  to  pitch  —  that  is,  help  to  load  the 
waggon ;  as  a  young  man,  that  was  one  of  the  jobs 
allotted  to  him.  This  was  the  reverse.  Instead 
of  stooping  he  had  now  to  strain  himself  upright 
and  lift  sheaves  over  his  head.  His  stomach  empty 
of  everything  but  small  ale  did  not  like  this  any 
more  than  his  back  had  liked  the  other ;  but  those 
who  work  for  bare  food  must  not  question  their 
employment.  Heavily  the  day  drove  on ;  there 
was  more  beer,  and  again  more  beer,  because  it 


ONE    OF    THE    NEW    VOTERS 

was  desired  to  clear  some  fields  that  evening. 
Monotonously  pitching  the  sheaves,  Roger  laboured 
by  the  waggon  till  the  last  had  been  loaded  —  till 
the  moon  was  shining.  His  brazen  forehead 
was  unbound  now ;  in  spite  of  the  beer  the  work 
and  the  perspiration  had  driven  off  the  aching. 
He  was  weary  but  well.  Nor  had  he  been  dull 
during  the  day;  he  had  talked  and  joked — cum- 
brously  in  labourers'  fashion  —  with  his  fellows. 
His  aches,  his  empty  stomach,  his  labour,  and  the 
heat  had  not  overcome  the  vitality  of  his  spirits. 
There  was  life  enough  left  for  a  little  rough  play 
as  the  group  gathered  together  and  passed  out 
through  the  gateway.  Life  enough  left  in  him  to 
go  with  the  rest  to  the  alehouse  ;  and  what  else,  oh 
moralist,  would  you  have  done  in  his  place  ?  This, 
remember,  is  not  a  fancy  sketch  of  rural  poetry ; 
this  is  the  reaper's  real  existence. 

He  had  been  in  the  harvest-field  fourteen  hours, 
exposed  to  the  intense  heat,  not  even  shielded  by  a 
pith  helmet ;  he  had  worked  the  day  through  with 
thew  and  sinew ;  he  had  had  for  food  a  little  dry 
bread  and  a  few  onions,  for  drink  a  little  weak  tea 
and  a  great  deal  of  small  beer.  The  moon  was 
now  shining  in  the  sky,  still  bright  with  sunset 
colours.  Fourteen  hours  of  sun  and  labour  and 
hard  fare !  Now  tell  him  what  to  do.  To  go 
straight  to  his  plank-bed  in  the  cow-house ;  to  eat  a 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


little  more  dry  bread,  borrow  some  cheese  or  greasy 
bacon,  munch  it  alone,  and  sit  musing  till  sleep 
came  —  he  who  had  nothing  to  muse  about.  I 
think  it  would  i>eed  a  very  clever  man  indeed  to 
invent  something  for  him  to  do,  some  way  for  him 
to  spend  his  evening.  Read  !  To  recommend  a 
man  to  read  after  fourteen  hours'  burning  sun  is 
indeed  a  mockery ;  darn  his  stockings  would  be 
better.  There  really  is  nothing  whatsoever  that 
the  cleverest  and  most  benevolent  person  could 
suggest.  Before  any  benevolent  or  well-meaning 
suggestions  could  be  effective  the  preceding  circum- 
stances must  be  changed — the  hours  and  conditions 
of  labour,  everything;  and  can  that  be  done?  The 
world  has  been  working  these  thousands  of  years, 
and  still  it  is  the  same ;  with  our  engines,  our 
electric  light,  our  printing-press,  still  the  coarse 
labour  of  the  mine,  the  quarry,  the  field  has  to  be 
carried  out  by  human  hands.  While  that  is  so,  it 
is  useless  to  recommend  the  weary  reaper  to  read. 
For  a  man  is  not  a  horse :  the  horse's  day's  work 
is  over;  taken  to  his  stable  he  is  content,  his  mind 
goes  no  deeper  than  the  bottom  of  his  manger,  and 
so  long  as  his  nose  does  not  feel  the  wood,  so  long 
as  it  is  met  by  corn  and  hay,  he  will  endure  happily. 
But  Roger  the  reaper  is  not  a  horse. 

Just  as  his  body  needed  food  and  drink,  so  did 
his  mind  require  recreation,  and  that  chiefly  con- 


ONE    OF    THE    NEW    VOTERS  g^ 


sists  of  conversation.  The  drinking  and  the 
smoking  are  in  truth  but  the  attributes  of  the 
labourer's  public-house  evening.  It  is  conversation 
that  draws  him  thither,  just  as  it  draws  men  with 
money  in  their  pockets  to  the  club  and  the  houses 
of  their  friends.  Any  one  can  drink  or  smoke 
alone ;  it  needs  several  for  conversation,  for  com- 
pany. You  pass  a  public-house  —  the  reaper's 
house  —  in  the  summer  evening.  You  see  a  num- 
ber of  men  grouped  about  trestle-tables  out-of- 
doors,  and  others  sitting  at  the  open  window  ;  there 
is  an  odour  of  tobacco,  a  chink  of  glasses  and  mugs. 
You  can  smell  the  tobacco  and  see  the  ale ;  you 
cannot  see  the  indefinite  power  which  holds  men 
there  —  the  magnetism  of  company  and  conversa- 
tion. Their  conversation,  not  your  conversation  ; 
not  the  last  book,  the  last  play ;  not  saloon  con- 
versation ;  but  theirs  —  talk  in  which  neither  you 
nor  any  one  of  your  condition  could  really  join.  Xo 
us  there  would  seem  nothing  at  all  in  that  con- 
versation, vapid  and  subjectless ;  to  them  it  means 
much.  We  have  not  been  through  the  same  cir- 
cumstances :  our  day  has  been  differently  spent^ 
and  the  same  words  have  therefore  a  varying  value. 
Certain  it  is,  that  it  is  conversation  that  takes  men 
to  the  public-house.  Had  Roger  been  a  horse  he 
would  have  hastened  to  borrow  some  food,  and, 
having  eaten  that,  would  have  cast  himself  at  once 
9  —129  — 


THE     OPEN     AIR 


upon  his  rude  bed.  Not  being  an  animal,  though 
his  life  and  work  were  animal,  he  went  with  his 
friends  to  talk.  Let  none  unjustly  condemn  him 
as  a  blackguard  ./or  that  —  no,  not  even  though 
they  had  seen  him  at  ten  o'clock  unsteadily  walking 
to  his  shed,  and  guiding  himself  occasionally  with 
his  hands  to  save  himself  from  stumbling.  He 
blundered  against  the  door,  and  the  noise  set  the 
swallows  on  the  beams  twittering.  He  reached 
his  bedstead,  and  sat  down  and  tried  to  unlace  his 
boots,  but  could  not.  He  threw  himself  upon  the 
sacks  and  fell  asleep.  Such  was  one  twenty-four 
hours  of  harvest-time. 

The  next  and  the  next,  for  weeks,  were  almost 
exactly  similar;  now  a  little  less  beer,  now  a  little 
more;  now  tying  up,  now  pitching,  now  cutting  a 
small  field  or  corner  with  a  fagging-hook.  Once 
now  and  then  there  was  a  great  supper  at  the  farm. 
Once  he  fell  out  with  another  fellow,  and  they  had 
a  fight ;  Roger,  however,  had  had  so  much  ale, 
and  his  opponent  so  much  whisky,  that  their  blows 
were  soft  and  helpless.  They  both  fell,  —  that  is, 
they  stumbled,  —  they  were  picked  up,  there  was 
some  more  beer,  and  it  was  settled.  One  afternoon 
Roger  became  suddenly  giddy,  and  was  so  ill  that 
he  did  no  more  work  that  day,  and  very  little  on 
the  following.  It  was  something  like  a  sunstroke, 
but  fortunately  a  slight  attack ;  on  the  third  day  he 
-130  — 


ONE    OF    THE    NEW    VOTERS 

resumed  his  place.  Continued  labour  in  the  sun, 
little  food  and  much  drink,  stomach  derangement, 
in  short,  accounted  for  his  illness.  Though  he 
resumed  his  place  and  worked  on,  he  was  not  so 
well  afterwards;  the  work  was  more  of  an  effort 
to  him,  and  his  face  lost  its  fulness,  and  became 
drawn  and  pointed.  Still  he  laboured,  and  would 
not  miss  an  hour,  for  harvest  was  coming  to  an 
end,  and  the  extra  wages  would  soon  cease.  For 
the  first  week  or  so  of  haymaking  or  reaping  the 
men  usually  get  drunk,  delighted  with  the  prospect 
before  them,  then  they  settle  down  fairly  well. 
Towards  the  end  they  struggle  hard  to  recover  lost 
time  and  the  money  spent  in  ale. 

As  the  last  week  approached,  Roger  went  up 
into  the  village  and  ordered  the  shoemaker  to  make 
him  a  good  pair  of  boots.  He  paid  partly  for  them 
then,  and  the  rest  next  pay-day.  This  was  a 
tremendous  effort.  The  labourer  usually  pays  a 
shilling  at  a  time,  but  Roger  mistrusted  himself. 
Harvest  was  practically  over,  and  after  all  the 
labour  and  the  long  hours,  the  exposure  to  the 
sun  and  the  rude  lodging,  he  found  he  should 
scarcely  have  thirty  shillings.  With  the  utmost 
ordinary  care  he  could  have  saved  a  good  lump  of 
money.  He  was  a  single  man,  and  his  actual  keep 
cost  but  little.  Many  married  labourers,  who  had 
been  forced  by  hard  necessity  to  econony,  contrived 
—  131  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


to  put  by  enough  to  buy  clothes  for  their  families. 
The  single  man,  with  every  advantage,  hardly  had 
thirty  shillings,  and  even  then  it  showed  extraor- 
dinary prudence  .on  his  part  to  go  and  purchase  a 
pair  of  boots  for  the  winter.  Very  few  in  his  place 
would  have  been  as  thoughtful  as  that ;  they  would 
have  got  boots  somehow  in  the  end,  but  not  before- 
hand. This  life  of  animal  labour  does  not  grow 
the  spirit  of  economy.  Not  only  in  farming,  but 
in  navvy  work,  in  the  rougher  work  of  factories 
and  mines,  the  same  fact  is  evident.  The  man 
who  labours  with  thew  and  sinew  at'  horse  labour — 
crane  labour — not  for  himself,  but  for  others,  is 
not  the  man  who  saves.  If  he  worked  for  his  own 
hand  possibly  he  might,  no  matter  how  rough  his 
labour  and  fare ;  not  while  working  for  another. 
Roger  reached  his  distant  home  among  the  meadows 
at  last,  with  one  golden  half-sovereign  in  his  pocket. 
That  and  his  new  pair  of  boots,  not  yet  finished, 
represented  the  golden  harvest  to  him.  He  lodged 
with  his  parents  when  at  home ;  he  was  so  far 
fortunate  that  he  had  a  bed  to  go  to ;  therefore  in 
the  estimation  of  his  class  he  was  not  badly  off. 
But  if  we  consider  his  position  as  regards  his  own 
life  we  must  recognise  that  he  was  very  badly  off 
indeed,  so  much  precious  time  and  the  strength  of 
his  youth  having  been  wasted. 

Often  it  is  stated  that  the  harvest  wages  recoup 
—  132  — 


OF    THE    NEW    VOTERS^E 


the  labourer  for  the  low  weekly  receipts  of  the  year, 
and  if  the  money  be  put  down  in  figures  with  pen 
and  ink  it  is  so.  But  in  actual  fact  the  pen-and-ink 
figures  do  not  represent  the  true  case;  these  extra 
figures  have  been  paid  for,  and  gold  may  be  bought 
too  dear.  Roger  had  paid  heavily  for  his  half- 
sovereign  and  his  boots;  his  pinched  face  did  not 
look  as  if  he  had  benefited  greatly.  His  cautious 
old  father,  rendered  frugal  by  forty  years  of  labour, 
had  done  fairly  well ;  the  young  man  not  at  all. 
The  old  man,  having  a  cottage,  in  a  measure 
worked  for  his  own  hand.  The  young  man, 
with  none  but  himself  to  think  of,  scattered  his 
money  to  the  winds.  Is  money  earned  with  such 
expenditure  of  force  worth  the  having  ?  Look 
at  the  arm  of  a  woman  labouring  in  the  harvest- 
field —  thin,  muscular,  sinewy,  black  almost,  it  tells 
of  continual  strain.  After  much  of  this  she  becomes 
pulled  out  of  shape,  the  neck  loses  its  roundness 
.and  shows  the  sinews,  the  chest  flattens.  In  time 
the  women  find  the  strain  of  it  tell  severely.  I  am 
not  trying  to  make  out  a  case  of  special  hardship, 
being  aware  that  both  men,  women,  and  children 
work  as  hard  and  perhaps  suffer  more  in  cities;  I 
am  simply  describing  the  realities  of  rural  life  behind 
the  scenes.  The  golden  harvest  is  the  first  scene ; 
the  golden  wheat,  glorious  under  the  summer  sun. 
Bright  poppies  flower  in  its  depths,  and  convolvulus 
—  133  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


climbs  the  stalks.  Butterflies  float  slowly  over  the 
yellow  surface  as  they  might  over  a  lake  of  colour. 
To  linger  by  it,  to  visit  it  day  by  day,  at  even  to  watch 
the  sunset  by  it,  and  see  it  pale  under  the  changing 
light,  is  a  delight  to  the  thoughtful  mind.  There  is 
so  much  in  the  wheat,  there  are  books  of  meditation 
in  it,  it  is  dear  to  the  heart.  Behind  these  beautiful 
aspects  comes  the  reality  of  human  labour  —  hours 
upon  hours  of  heat  and  strain  ;  there  comes  the 
reality  of  a  rude  life,  and  in  the  end  little  enough  of 
gain.  The  wheat  is  beautiful,  but  human  life  is 
labour. 


—134  — 


THE  MODERN  THAMES 


I 

iHE  wild  red  deer  can  never  again  come 
down  to  drink  at  the  Thames  in  the 
dusk  of  the  evening  as  once  they  did. 
While  modern  civilisation  endures,  the 
larger  fauna  must  necessarily  be  confined  to  parks 
or  restrained  to  well-marked  districts  ;  but  for  that 
very  reason  the  lesser  creatures  of  the  wood,  the 
field,  and  the  river  should  receive  the  more  protec- 
tion. If  this  applies  to  the  secluded  country,  far 
from  the  stir  of  cities,  still  more  does  it  apply  to 
the  neighbourhood  of  London.  From  a  sportsman's 
point  of  view,  or  from  that  of  a  naturalist,  the  state 
of  the  river  is  one  of  chaos.  There  is  no  order. 
The  Thames  appears  free  even  from  the  usual  rules 
which  are  in  force  upon  every  highway.  A  man 
may  not  fire  a  gun  within  a  certain  distance  of  a 
road  under  a  penalty  —  a  law  enacted  for  the  safety 
of  passengers,  who  were  formerly  endangered  by 
persons  shooting  small  birds  along  the  hedges  bor- 
dering roads.  Nor  may  he  shoot  at  all,  not  so 
much  as  fire  off  a  pistol  (as  recently  publicly 
—  135  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

proclaimed  by  the  Metropolitan  police  to  restrain 
the  use  of  revolvers),  without  a  license.  But  on 
the  river  people  do  as  they  choose,  and  there  does 
not  seem  to  be  any  law  at  all  —  or  at  least  there  is 
no  authority  to  enforce  it,  if  it  exists.  Shooting 
from  boats  and  from  the  towing-path  is  carried  on 
in  utter  defiance  of  the  licensing  law,  of  the  game 
law  (as  applicable  to  wild  fowl),  and  of  the  safety 
of  persons  who  may  be  passing.  The  moorhens 
are  shot,  the  kingfishers  have  been  nearly  extermi- 
nated or  driven  away  from  some  parts,  the  once 
common  black-headed  bunting  is  comparatively 
scarce  in  the  more  frequented  reaches,  and  if  there 
is  nothing  else  to  shoot  at,  then  the  swallows  are 
slaughtered.  Some  have  even  taken  to  shooting  at 
the  rooks  in  the  trees  or  fields  by  the  river  with 
small-bore  rifles  —  a  most  dangerous  thing  to  do. 
The  result  is  that  the  osier-beds  on  the  eyots  and 
by  the  backwaters  —  the  copses  of  the  river  —  are 
almost  devoid  of  life.  A  few  moorhens  creep  under 
the  aquatic  grasses  and  conceal  themselves  beneath 
the  bushes,  water-voles  hide  among  the  flags,  but  the 
once  extensive  host  of  water-fowl  and  river  life  has 
been  reduced  to  the  smallest  limits.  Waterfowl 
cannot  breed  because  they  are  shot  on  the  nest, 
or  their  eggs  taken.  As  for  rarer  birds,  of  course 
they  have  not  the  slightest  chance. 

The  fish  have  fared  better  because  they  have  re- 
-136- 


g^cg       THE    MODERN    THAMES 

ceived  the  benefit  of  close  seasons,  enforced  with 
more  or  less  vigilance  all  along  the  river.  They 
are  also  protected  by  regulations  making  it  illegal 
to  capture  them  except  in  a  sportsmanlike  manner; 
snatching,  for  instance,  is  unlawful.  Riverside  pro- 
prietors preserve  some  reaches,  piscatorial  societies 
preserve  others,  and  the  complaint  indeed  is  that 
the  rights  of  the  public  have  been  encroached  upon. 
The  too  exclusive  preservation  of  fish  is  in  a  meas- 
ure responsible  for  the  destruction  of  water-fowl, 
which  are  cleared  off  preserved  places  in  order  that 
they  may  not  help  themselves  to  fry  or  spawn.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  societies  may  claim  to  have 
saved  parts  of  the  river  from  being  entirely  de- 
prived of  fish,  for  it  is  not  long  since  it  appeared 
as  if  the  stream  would  be  quite  cleared  out.  Large 
quantities  of  fish  have  also  been  placed  in  the  river 
taken  from  ponds  and  bodily  transported  to  the 
Thames.  So  that  upon  the  whole  the  fish  have 
been  well  looked  after  of  recent  years. 

The  more  striking  of  the  aquatic  plants  —  such 
as  white  water-lilies  —  have  been  much  diminished 
in  quantity  by  the  constant  plucking,  and  injury  is 
said  to  have  been  done  by  careless  navigation.  In 
things  of  this  kind  a  few  persons  can  do  a  great 
deal  of  damage.  Two  or  three  men  with  guns, 
and  indifferent  to  the  interests  of  sport  or  natural 
history,  at  work  every  day,  can  clear  a  long  stretch 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

of  river  of  water-fowl,  by  scaring  if  not  by  actually 
killing  them.  Imagine  three  or  four  such  gentry 
allowed  to  wander  at  will  in  a  large  game  preserve 
—  in  a  week  they,  would  totally  destroy  it  as  a  pre- 
serve. The  river,  after  all,  is  but  a  narrow  band, 
as  it  were,  and  is  easily  commanded  by  a  gun.  So, 
too,  with  fish  poachers ;  a  very  few  men  with  nets 
can  quickly  empty  a  good  piece  of  water ;  and 
flowers  like  water-lilies,  which  grow  only  in  cer- 
tain spots,  are  soon  pulled  or  spoiled.  This  as- 
pect of  the  matter  —  the  immense  mischief  which 
can  be  effected  by  a  very  few  persons  —  should  be 
carefully  borne  in  mind  in  framing  any  regulations. 
For  the  mischief  done  on  the  river  is  really  the 
work  of  a  small  number,  a  mere  fraction  of  the 
thousands  of  all  classes  who  frequent  it.  Not  one 
in  a  thousand  probably  perpetrates  any  intentional 
damage  to  fish,  fowl,  or  flowers. 

As  the  river  above  all  things  is,  and  ought  to  be,  a 
place  of  recreation,  care  must  be  particularly  taken 
that  in  restraining  these  practices  the  enjoyment 
of  the  many  be  not  interfered  with.  The  rational 
pleasure  of  999  people  ought  not  to  be  checked  be- 
cause the  last  of  the  thousand  acts  as  a  blackguard. 
This  point,  too,  bears  upon  the  question  of  steam- 
launches.  A  launch  can  pass  as  softly  and  quietly 
as  a  skifF  floating  with  the  stream.  And  there  is 
a  good  deal  to  be  said  on  the  other  side,  for  the 
-138- 


THE    MODERN    THAMES       Jg^SK 

puntsmen  stick  themselves  very  often  in  the  way 
of  every  one  else ;  and  if  you  analyse  fishing  for 
minnows  from  a  punt  you  will  not  find  it  a  noble 
sport.  A  river  like  the  Thames,  belonging  as  it 
does  —  or  as  it  ought  —  to  a  city  like  London, 
should  be  managed  from  the  very  broadest  stand- 
point. There  should  be  pleasure  for  all,  and  there 
certainly  is  no  real  difficulty  in  arranging  matters 
to  that  end.  The  Thames  should  be  like  a  great 
aquarium,  in  which  a  certain  balance  of  life  has  to 
be  kept  up.  When  aquaria  first  came  into  favour 
such  things  as  snails  and  weeds  were  excluded  as 
eyesores  and  injurious.  But  it  was  soon  discovered 
that  the  despised  snails  and  weeds  were  absolutely 
necessary  ;  an  aquarium  could  not  be  maintained 
in  health  without  them,  and  now  the  most  perfect 
aquarium  is  the  one  in  which  the  natural  state  is 
most  completely  copied.  On  the  same  principle  it 
is  evident  that  too  exclusive  preservation  must  be 
injurious  to  the  true  interests  of  the  river.  Fish 
enthusiasts,  for  instance,  desire  the  extinction  of 
water-fowl  —  there  is  not  a  single  aquatic  bird 
which  they  do  not  accuse  of  damage  to  fry,  spawn, 
or  full-grown  fish  ;  no,  not  one,  from  the  heron 
down  to  the  tiny  grebe.  They  are  nearly  as  bitter 
against  animals  ;  the  poor  water-vole  (or  water-rat) 
even  is  denounced  and  shot.  Any  one  who  chooses 
may  watch  the  water-rat  feeding  on  aquatic  vege- 
—  139  — 


THE    OPEN     AIR 


tation  ;  never  mind,  shoot  him  because  he  's  there. 
There  is  no  other  reason.  Bitterest,  harshest,  most 
envenomed  of  all  is  the  outcry  and  hunt  directed 
against  the  otter.  .,,  It  is  as  if  the  otter  were  a  wolf 
—  as  if  he  were  as  injurious  as  the  mighty  boar 
whom  Meleager  and  his  companions  chased  in  the 
days  of  dim  antiquity.  What,  then,  has  the  otter 
done  ?  Has  he  ravaged  the  fields  ?  does  he  threaten 
the  homesteads  ?  is  he  at  Temple  Bar  ?  are  we  to 
run,  as  the  old  song  says,  from  the  Dragon  ?  The 
fact  is,  the  ravages  attributed  to  the  otter  are  of  a 
local  character.  They  are  chiefly  committed  in 
those  places  where  fish  are  more  or  less  confined. 
If  you  keep  sheep  close  together  in  a  pen  the  wolf 
who  leaps  the  hurdles  can  kill  the  flock  if  he 
chooses.  In  narrow  waters,  and  where  fish  are 
maintained  in  quantities  out  of  proportion  to  ex- 
tent, an  otter  can  work  doleful  woe.  That  is  to 
say,  those  who  want  too  many  fish  are  those  who 
give  the  otter  his  opportunity. 

In  a  great  river  like  the  Thames  a  few  otters 
cannot  do  much  or  lasting  injury  except  in  par- 
ticular places.  The  truth  is,  that  the  otter  is  an 
ornament  to  the  river,  and  more  worthy  of  preser- 
vation than  any  other  creature.  He  is  the  last  and 
largest  of  the  wild  creatures  who  once  roamed  so 
freely  in  the  forests  which  enclosed  Londinium, 
that  fort  in  the  woods  and  marshes  —  marshes 
—  140  — 


THE    MODERN    THAMES 

which  to  this  day,  though  drained  and  built  over, 
enwrap  the  nineteenth  century  city  in  thick  mists. 
The  red  deer  are  gone,  the  boar  is  gone,  the  wolf 
necessarily  destroyed  —  the  red  deer  can  never 
again  drink  at  the  Thames  in  the  dusk  of  the 
evening  while  our  civilisation  endures.  The  otter 
alone  remains  —  the  wildest,  the  most  thoroughly 
self-supporting  of  all  living  things  left  —  a  living 
link  going  back  to  the  days  of  Cassivelaunus. 
London  ought  to  take  the  greatest  interest  in  the 
otters  of  its  river.  The  shameless  way  in  which 
every  otter  that  dares  to  show  itself  is  shot,  trapped, 
beaten  to  death,  and  literally  battered  out  of  exist- 
ence, should  rouse  the  indignation  of  every  sports- 
man and  every  lover  of  nature.  The  late  Rev. 
John  Russell,  who,  it  will  be  admitted,  was  a  true 
sportsman,  walked  three  thousand  miles  to  see  an 
otter.  That  was  a  different  spirit,  was  it  not  ? 

That  is  the  spirit  in  which  the  otter  in  the 
Thames  should  be  regarded.  Those  who  offer 
money  rewards  for  killing  Thames  otters  ought  to 
be  looked  on  as  those  who  would  offer  rewards  for 
poisoning  foxes  in  Leicestershire.  I  suppose  we 
shall  not  see  the  ospreys  again  ;  but  I  should  like  to. 
Again,  on  the  other  side  of  the  boundary,  in  the 
tidal  waters,  the  same  sort  of  ravenous  destruction 
is  carried  on  against  everything  that  ventures  up. 
A  short  time  ago  a  porpoise  came  up  to  Mortlake ; 
—  141  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


now,  just  think,  a  porpoise  up  from  the  great  sea 
—  that  sea  to  which  Londoners  rush  with  such 
joy  —  past  Gravesend,  past  Greenwich,  past  the 
Tower,  under  London  Bridge,  past  Westminster 
and  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  right  up  to  Mort- 
lake.  It  is  really  a  wonderful  thing  that  a  denizen 
of  the  sea  so  large  and  interesting  as  a  porpoise 
should  come  right  through  the  vast  City  of  London. 
In  an  aquarium  people  would  go  to  see  it  and 
admire  it,  and  take  their  children  to  see  it.  What 
happened  ?  Some  one  hastened  out  in  a  boat, 
armed  with  a  gun  or  a  rifle,  and  occupied  himself 
with  shooting  at  it.  He  did  not  succeed  in  killing 
it,  but  it  was  wounded.  Some  difference  here  to 
the  spirit  of  John  Russell.  If  I  may  be  permitted 
to  express  an  opinion,  I  think  that  there  is  not  a 
single  creature,  from  the  sand-marten  and  the  black- 
headed  bunting  to  the  broad-winged  heron,  from 
the  water-vole  to  the  otter,  from  the  minnow  on 
one  side  of  the  tidal  boundary  to  the  porpoise  on 
the  other  —  big  and  little,  beasts  and  birds  (of  prey 
or  not)  —  that  should  not  be  encouraged  and 
protected  on  this  beautiful  river,  morally  the  prop- 
erty of  the  greatest  city  in  the  world. 

II 

I    LOOKED  forward  to  living   by  the  river  with 
delight,  anticipating  the  long  rows  I  should   have 
—  142— 


THE    MODERN    THAMES 

past  the  green  eyots  and  the  old  houses  red-tiled 
among  the  trees.  I  should  pause  below  the  weir 
and  listen  to  the  pleasant  roar,  and  watch  the 
fisherman  cast  again  and  again  with  the  "  tran- 
scendent patience  "  of  genius  by  which  alone  the 
Thames  trout  is  captured.  Twisting  the  end  of  a 
willow  bough  round  my  wrist,  I  could  moor  myself 
and  rest  at  ease,  though  the  current  roared  under 
the  skiff,  fresh  from  the  waterfall.  A  thousand 
thousand  bubbles  rising  to  the  surface  would  whiten 
the  stream  —  a  thousand  thousand  succeeded  by 
another  thousand  thousand  —  and  still  flowing,  no 
multiple  could  express  the  endless  number.  That 
which  flows  continuously  by  some  sympathy  is 
acceptable  to  the  mind,  as  if  thereby  it  realised  its 
own  existence  without  an  end.  Swallows  would 
skim  the  water  to  and  fro  as  yachts  tack,  the  sand- 
piper would  run  along  the  strand,  a  black-headed 
bunting  would  perch  upon  the  willow;  perhaps  as 
the  man  of  genius  fishing  and  myself  made  no 
noise,  a  kingfisher  might  come,  and  we  might  see 
him  take  his  prey. 

Or  I  might  quit  hold  of  the  osier  and,  entering 
a  shallow  backwater,  disturb  shoals  of  roach  play- 
ing where  the  water  was  transparent  to  the  bottom, 
after  their  wont.  Winding  in  and  out  like  an 
Indian  in  his  canoe,  perhaps  traces  of  an  otter 
might  be  found — his  kitchen  modding  —  and  in 
—  143  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

the  sedges  moorhens  and  wildfowl  would  hide  from 
me.  From  its  banks  I  should  gather  many  a 
flower  and  notice  many  a  plant ;  there  would  be, 
too,  the  beautifuJ.  water-lily.  Or  I  should  row  on 
up  the  great  stream  by  meadows  full  of  golden 
buttercups,  past  fields  crimson  with  trifolium  or 
green  with  young  wheat.  Handsome  sailing  craft 
would  come  down  spanking  before  the  breeze,  laden 
with  bright  girls  —  laughter  on  board,  and  love  the 
golden  fleece  of  their  argosy. 

I  should  converse  with  the  ancient  men  of  the 
terries,  and  listen  to  their  river  lore;  they  would 
show  me  the  mark  to  which  the  stream  rose  in  the 
famous  year  of  floods.  On  again  to  the  cool 
hostelry  whose  sign  was  reflected  in  the  water, 
where  there  would  be  a  draught  of  fine  ale  for  the 
heated  and  thirsty  sculler.  On  again  till  steeple  or 
tower  rising  over  the  trees  marked  my  journey's 
end  for  the  day,  some  old  town  where,  after  rest  and 
refreshment,  there  would  be  a  ruin  or  a  timbered 
house  to  look  at,  where  I  should  meet  folk  full  of 
former  days  and  quaint  tales  of  yore.  Thus  to 
journey  on  from  place  to  place  would  be  the  great 
charm  of  the  river  —  travelling  by  water,  not  merely 
sculling  to  and  fro,  but  really  travelling.  Upon  a 
lake  I  could  but  row  across  and  back  again,  and 
however  lovely  the  scenery  might  be,  still  it  would 
always  be  the  same.  But  the  Thames,  upon  the 
—  144  — 


THE    MODERN    THAMES 

river  I  could  really  travel,  day  after  day,  from 
Teddington  Lock  upwards  to  Windsor,  to  Oxford, 
on  to  quiet  Lechlade,  or  even  farther  deep  into 
the  meadows  by  Cricklade.  Every  hour  there 
would  be  something  interesting,  all  the  freshwater 
life  to  study,  the  very  barges  would  amuse  me,  and 
at  last  there  would  be  the  delicious  ease  of  floating 
home  carried  by  the  stream,  repassing  all  that  had 
pleased  before. 

The  time  came.  I  lived  by  the  river,  not  far 
from  its  widest  reaches,  before  the  stream  meets  its 
tide.  I  went  down  to  the  eyot  for  a  boat,  and  my 
difficulties  began.  The  crowd  of  boats  lashed  to 
each  other  in  strings  ready  for  the  hirer  disconcerted 
me.  There  were  so  many  I  could  not  choose ;  the 
whole  together  looked  like  a  broad  raft.  Others  were 
hauled  on  the  shore.  Over  on  the  eyot,  a  little 
island,  there  were  more  boats,  boats  launched,  boats 
being  launched,  boats  being  carried  by  gentlemen 
in  coloured  flannels  as  carefully  as  mothers  handle 
their  youngest  infants,  boats  covered  in  canvas 
mummy-cases,  and  dim  boats  under  roofs,  their 
sharp  prows  projecting  like  crocodiles'  snouts. 
Tricksy  outriggers,  ready  to  upset  on  narrow  keel, 
were  held  firmly  for  the  sculler  to  step  daintily  into 
his  place.  A  strong  eight  shot  by  up  the  stream, 
the  men  all  pulling  together  as  if  they  had  been 
one  animal.  A  strong  sculler  shot  by  down  the 

10  —  145  — 


THE     OPEN     AIR 


stream,  his  giant  arms  bare  and  the  muscles  visible 
as  they  rose,  knotting  and  unknotting  with  the 
stroke.  Every  one  on  the  bank  and  eyot  stopped 
to  watch  him  — they  knew  him,  he  was  training. 
How  could  an  amateur  venture  out  and  make  an 
exhibition  of  himself  after  such  splendid  rowing  ! 
Still  it  was  noticeable  that  plenty  of  amateurs  did 
venture  out,  till  the  waterway  was  almost  concealed 
—  boated  over  instead  of  bridged  —  and  how  they 
managed  to  escape  locking  their  oars  together,  I 
could  not  understand. 

I  looked  again  at  the  boats.  Some  were  out- 
riggers. I  could  not  get  into  an  outrigger  after  see- 
ing the  great  sculler.  The  rest  were  one  and  all 
after  the  same  pattern,  i.e.  with  the  stern  cushioned 
and  prepared  for  a  lady.  Some  were  larger,  and 
could  carry  three  or  four  ladies,  but  they  were 
all  intended  for  the  same  purpose.  If  the  sculler 
went  out  in  such  a  boat  by  himself  he  must  either 
sit  too  far  forward  and  so  depress  the  stem  and  dig 
himself,  as  it  were,  into  the  water  at  each  stroke, 
or  he  must  sit  too  much  to  the  rear  and  depress 
the  stern,  and  row  with  the  stem  lifted  up,  sniff- 
ing the  air.  The  whole  crowd  of  boats  on  hire 
were  exactly  the  same ;  in  short,  they  were  built 
for  woman  and  not  for  man,  for  lovely  woman 
to  recline,  parasol  in  one  hand  and  tiller  ropes 
in  the  other,  while  man  —  inferior  man  —  pulled 
-146- 


THE    MODERN    THAMES 

and  pulled  and  pulled  as  an  ox  yoked  to  the 
plough.  They  could  only  be  balanced  by  man 
and  woman,  that  was  the  only  way  they  could 
be  trimmed  on  an  even  keel;  they  were  like 
scales,  in  which  the  weight  on  one  side  must  be 
counterpoised  by  a  weight  in  the  other.  They 
were  dead  against  bachelors.  They  belonged  to 
woman,  and  she  was  absolute  mistress  of  the 
river. 

As  I  looked,  the  boats  ground  together  a  little, 
chafing,  laughing  at  me,  making  game  of  me, 
asking  distinctly  what  business  a  man  had  there 
without  at  least  one  companion  in  petticoats  ? 
My  courage  ebbed,  and  it  was  in  a  feeble  voice 
that  I  inquired  whether  there  was  no  such  thing  as 
a  little  skiff  a  fellow  might  paddle  about  in  ?  No, 
nothing  of  the  kind  ;  would  a  canoe  do  ?  Some- 
how a  canoe  would  not  do.  I  never  took  kindly 
to  canoes,  excepting  always  the  Canadian  birch- 
bark  pattern ;  evidently  there  was  no  boat  for  me. 
There  was  no  place  on  the  great  river  for  an 
indolent,  dreamy  particle  like  myself,  apt  to  drift 
up  into  nooks,  and  to  spend  much  time  absorb- 
ing those  pleasures  which  enter  by  the  exquisite 
sensitiveness  of  the  eye  —  colour,  and  shade,  and 
form,  and  the  cadence  of  glittering  ripple  and 
moving  leaf.  You  must  be  prepared  to  pull 
and  push,  and  struggle  for  your  existence  on  the 
— 147  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


river,  as  in  the  vast  city  hard  by  men  push  and 
crush  for  money.  You  must  assert  yourself,  and 
insist  upon  having  your  share  of  the  waterway ; 
you  must  be  perfectly  convinced  that  yours  is  the 
very  best  style  of  rowing  to  be  seen ;  every  one 
ought  to  get  out  of  your  way.  You  must  consult 
your  own  convenience  only,  and  drive  right  into 
other  people's  boats,  forcing  them  up  into  the  wil- 
lows, or  against  the  islands.  Never  slip  along  the 
shore,  or  into  quiet  backwaters ;  always  select  the 
more  frequented  parts,  not  because  you  want  to  go 
there,  but  to  make  your  presence  known,  and  go 
amongst  the  crowd  ;  and  if  a  few  sculls  get  broken, 
it  only  proves  how  very  inferior  and  how  very 
clumsy  other  people  are.  If  you  see  another  boat 
coming  down  stream  in  the  centre  of  the  river 
with  a  broad  space  on  either  side  for  others  to 
pass,  at  once  head  your  own  boat  straight  at  her, 
and  take  possession  of  the  way.  Or,  better  still, 
never  look  ahead,  but  pull  straight  on,  and  let 
things  happen  as  they  may.  Annoy  everybody, 
and  you  are  sure  to  be  right,  and  to  be  respected ; 
splash  the  ladies  as  you  pass  with  a  dexterous  flip 
of  the  scull,  and  soak  their  summer  costumes ;  it 
is  capital  sport,  and  they  look  so  sulky  —  or  is  it 
contemptuous  ? 

There  was  no  such   thing  as  a  skiff  in  which 
one   could   quietly   paddle   about,  or  gently    make 
-148- 


THE    MODERN    THAMES 

way  —  mile  after  mile  —  up  the  beautiful  stream. 
The  boating  throng  grew  thicker,  and  my  courage 
less  and  less,  till  I  desperately  resorted  to  the  ferry 
—  at  all  events,  I  could  be  rowed  over  in  the  ferry- 
boat, that  would  be  something ;  I  should  be  on  the 
water,  after  a  fashion  —  and  the  ferryman  would 
know  a  good  deal.  The  burly  ferryman  cared 
nothing  at  all  about  the  river,  and  merely  an- 
swered "  Yes,"  or  u  No ; "  he  was  full  of  the 
Derby  and  Sandown  ;  did  n't  know  about  the  fish- 
ing ;  supposed  there  were  fish  ;  did  n't  see  'em,  nor 
eat  'em ;  want  a  punt  ?  No.  So  he  landed  me, 
desolate  and  hopeless,  on  the  opposite  bank,  and  I 
began  to  understand  how  the  souls  felt  after  Charon 
had  got  them  over.  They  could  not  have  been 
more  unhappy  than  I  was  on  the  towing-path, 
as  the  ferry-boat  receded  and  left  me  watching 
the  continuous  succession  of  boats  passing  up 
and  down  the  river. 

By-and-by  an  immense  black  hulk  came  drift- 
ing round  the  bend  —  an  empty  barge  —  almost 
broadside  across  the  stream,  for  the  current  at 
the  curve  naturally  carried  it  out  from  the  shore. 
This  huge  helpless  monster  occupied  the  whole 
river,  and  had  no  idea  where  it  was  going,  for 
it  had  no  fins  or  sweeps  to  guide  its  course,  and 
the  rudder  could  only  induce  it  to  submit  itself 
lengthways  to  the  stream  after  the  lapse  of  some 
—  149  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

time.  The  fairway  of  the  river  was  entirely 
taken  up  by  this  irresponsible  Frankenstein  of 
the  Thames,  which  some  one  had  started,  but 
which  now  did  as  it  liked.  Some  of  the  small 
craft  got  up  into  the  willows  and  waited ;  some 
seemed  to  narrowly  escape  being  crushed  against 
a  wall  on  the  opposite  bank.  The  bright  white 
sails  of  a  yacht  shook  and  quivered  as  its  steers- 
man tried  all  he  knew  to  coax  his  vessel  an 
inch  more  into  the  wind  out  of  the  monster's 
path.  In  vain !  He  had  to  drop  down  the 
stream,  and  lose  what  it  had  taken  him  half 
an  hour's  skill  to  gain.  What  a  pleasing  mon- 
ster to  meet  in  the  narrow  arches  of  a  bridge  ! 
The  man  in  charge  leaned  on  the  tiller,  and 
placidly  gazed  at  the  wild  efforts  of  some  un- 
skilful oarsmen  to  escape  collision.  In  fact,  the 
monster  had  charge  of  the  man,  and  did  as  it 
liked  with  him. 

Down  the  river  they  drifted  together,  Franken- 
stein swinging  round  and  thrusting  his  blunt  nose 
first  this  way  and  then  that ;  down  the  river,  block- 
ing up  the  narrow  passage  by  the  eyot;  stopping 
the  traffic  at  the  lock  ;  out  at  last  into  the  tidal 
stream,  there  to  begin  a  fresh  life  of  annoyance, 
and  finally  to  endanger  the  good  speed  of  many 
a  fine  three-master  and  ocean  steamer  off  the  docks. 
The  Thames  barge  knows  no  law.  No  judge,  no 
—  150  — 


2E^<g      THE    MODERN    THAMES 

jury,  no  Palace  of  Justice,  no  Chancery,  no  appeal 
to  the  Lords  has  any  terror  for  the  monster  barge. 
It  drifts  by  the  Houses  of  Parliament  with  no  more 
respect  than  it  shows  for  the  lodge  of  the  lock- 
keeper.  It  drifts  by  Royal  Windsor,  and  cares 
not.  The  guns  of  the  Tower  are  of  no  account. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  world  so  utterly  free  as 
this  monster. 

Often  have  I  asked  myself  if  the  bargee  at  the 
tiller,  now  sucking  at  his  short  black  pipe,  now 
munching  onions  and  cheese  (the  little  onions 
he  pitches  on  the  lawns  by  the  river  side,  there 
to  take  root  and  flourish)  —  if  this  amiable  man 
has  any  notion  of  his  own  incomparable  position. 
Just  some  inkling  of  the  irony  of  the  situation 
must,  I  fancy,  now  and  then  dimly  dawn  within 
his  grimy  brow.  To  see  all  these  gentlemen 
shoved  on  one  side ;  to  be  lying  in  the  way  of 
a  splendid  Australian  clipper;  to  stop  an  incom- 
ing vessel,  impatient  for  her  berth ;  to  swing,  and 
sway,  and  roll  as  he  goes ;  to  bump  the  big  ships, 
and  force  the  little  ones  aside ;  to  slip,  and  slide, 
and  glide  with  the  tide,  ripples  dancing  under  the 
prow,  and  be  master  of  the  world-famed  Thames 
from  source  to  mouth,  is  not  this  a  joy  for  ever? 
Liberty  is  beyond  price ;  now  no  one  is  really  free 
unless  he  can  crush  his  neighbour's  interest  under- 
foot, like  a  horse-roller  going  over  a  daisy.  Bargee 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


is  free,  and  the  ashes  of  his  pipe  are  worth  a  king's 
ransom. 

Imagine  a  great  van  loaded  at  the  East-end  of 
London  with  the  heaviest  merchandise,  with  bags 
of  iron  nails,  shot,  leaden  sheets  in  rolls,  and  pig 
iron  ;  imagine  four  strong  horses  —  dray-horses  — 
harnessed  thereto.  Then  let  the  waggoner  mount 
behind  in  a  seat  comfortably  contrived  for  him  facing 
the  rear,  and  settle  himself  down  happily  among  his 
sacks,  light  his  pipe,  and  fold  his  hands  untroubled 
with  any  worry  of  reins.  Away  they  go  through 
the  crowded  city,  by  the  Bank  of  England,  and 
across  into  Cheapside,  cabs  darting  this  way,  car- 
riages that,  omnibuses  forced  up  into  side-streets, 
foot  traffic  suspended  till  the  monster  has  passed ; 
up  Fleet-street,  clearing  the  road  in  front  of  them  — 
right  through  the  stream  of  lawyers  always  rushing 
to  and  fro  the  Temple  and  the  New  Law  Courts, 
along  the  Strand,  and  finally  in  triumph  into  Rotten 
Row  at  five  o'clock  on  a  June  afternoon.  See  how 
they  scatter  !  see  how  they  run  !  The  Row  is  swept 
clear  from  end  to  end  —  beauty,  fashion,  rank, — 
what  are  such  trifles  of  an  hour  ?  The  monster 
vans  grind  them  all  to  powder.  What  such  a 
waggoner  might  do  on  land,  bargee  does  on  the 
river. 

Of  olden  time  the  silver  Thames  was  the  chosen 
mode  of  travel  of  Royalty —  the  highest  in  the  land 


THE    MODERN    THAMES 

were  rowed  from  palace  to  city,  or  city  to  palace, 
between  its  sunlit  banks.  Noblemen  had  their 
special  oarsmen,  and  were  in  like  manner  conveyed, 
and  could  any  other  mode  of  journeying  be  equally 
pleasant  ?  The  coal-barge  has  bumped  them  all 
out  of  the  way. 

No  man  dares  send  forth  the  commonest  cart 
unless  in  proper  charge,  and  if  the  horse  is  not  under 
control  a  fine  is  promptly  administered.  The  coal- 
barge  rolls  and  turns  and  drifts  as  chance  and  the 
varying  current  please.  How  huge  must  be  the  rent 
in  the  meshes  of  the  law  to  let  so  large  a  fish  go 
through  !  But  in  truth  there  is  no  law  about  it, 
and  to  this  day  no  man  can  confidently  affirm  that  he 
knows  to  whom  the  river  belongs.  These  curious 
anomalies  are  part  and  parcel  of  our  political  sys- 
tem, and  as  I  watched  the  black  monster  slowly  go 
by  with  the  stream  it  occurred  to  me  that  grimy 
bargee,  with  his  short  pipe  and  his  onions,  was  really 
the  guardian  of  the  British  Constitution. 

Hardly  had  he  gone  past  than  a  loud  Pant!  pant! 
pant !  began  some  way  down  the  river ;  it  came 
from  a  tug,  whose  short  puffs  of  steam  produced  a 
giant  echo  against  the  walls  and  quays  and  houses 
on  the  bank.  These  angry  pants  sounded  high 
above  the  splash  of  oars  and  laughter,  and  the 
chorus  of  singers  in  a  boat ;  they  conquered  all 
other  sounds  and  noises,  and  domineered  the  place. 
—  153  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

It  was  impossible  to  shut  the  ears  to  them,  or  to 
f persuade  the  mind  not  to  heed.  The  swallows 
dipped  their  breasts ;  how  gracefully  they  drank  on 
the  wing !  PantJ  pant !  pant  !  The  sunlight 
gleamed  on  the  wake  of  a  four-oar.  Pant !  pant ! 
pant !  The  soft  wind  blew  among  the  trees  and 
over  the  hawthorn  hedge.  Pant !  pant !  pant ! 
Neither  the  eye  nor  ear  could  attend  to  aught  but 
this  hideous  uproar.  The  tug  was  weak,  the  stream 
strong,  the  barges  behind  heavy,  broad,  and  deeply 
laden,  so  that  each  puff  and  pant  and  turn  of  the 
screw  barely  advanced  the  mass  a  foot.  There  are 
many  feet  in  a  mile,  and  for  all  that  weary  time  — 
Pant !  pant !  pant !  This  dreadful  uproar,  like  that 
which  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza  heard  pro- 
ceeding from  the  fulling-mill,  must  be  endured. 
Could  not  philosophy  by  stoic  firmness  shut  out 
the  sound  ?  Can  philosophy  shut  out  anything  that 
is  real  ?  A  long  black  streak  of  smoke  hung  over 
the  water,  fowling  the  gleaming  surface.  A  noise 
of  Dante  —  hideous,  uncompromising  as  the  rusty 
hinge  of  the  gate  which  forbids  hope.  Pant !  pant ! 
pant ! 

Once  upon  a  time  a  Queen  of  England  was 
rowed  adown  the  silver  Thames  to  the  sweet  low 
sound  of  the  flute. 

At  last  the  noise  grew  fainter  in  the  distance, 
and  the  black  hulls  disappeared  round  the  bend. 
—  154  — 


THE    MODERN    THAMES 

I  walked  on  up  the  towing-path.  Accidentally 
lifting  my  hand  to  shade  my  eyes,  I  was  hailed  by 
a  ferryman  on  the  watch.  He  conveyed  me  over 
without  much  volition  on  my  part,  and  set  me 
ashore  by  the  inn  of  my  imagination.  The  rooms 
almost  overhung  the  water :  so  far  my  vision  was 
fulfilled.  Within  there  was  an  odour  of  spirits 
and  spilled  ale,  a  rustle  of  sporting  papers,  talk  of 
racings,  and  the  click  of  billiard-balls.  Without 
there  were  two  or  three  loafers,  half  boatmen,  half 
vagabonds,  waiting  to  pick  up  stray  sixpences  —  a 
sort  of  leprosy  of  rascal  and  sneak  in  their  faces 
and  the  lounge  of  their  bodies.  These  Thames- 
side  "  beach-combers "  are  a  sorry  lot,  a  special 
Pariah  class  of  themselves.  Some  of  them  have 
been  men  once :  perhaps  one  retains  his  sculling 
skill,  and  is  occasionally  engaged  by  a  gentleman 
to  give  him  lessons.  They  regarded  me  eagerly  — 
they  "  spotted  "  a  Thames  freshman  who  might  be 
made  to  yield  silver ;  but  I  walked  away  down  the 
road  into  the  village.  The  spire  of  the  church 
interested  me,  being  of  shingles  —  i.e.  of  wooden 
slates  —  as  the  houses  are  roofed  in  America,  as 
houses  were  roofed  in  Elizabethan  England  ;  for 
Young  America  reproduces  Old  England  even  in 
roofs.  Some  of  the  houses  so  closely  approached 
the  churchyard  that  the  pantry  windows  on  a  level 
with  the  ground  were  partly  blocked  up  by  the  green 
—  155  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

mounds  of  graves.  Borage  grew  thickly  all  over 
the  yard,  dropping  its  blue  flowers  on  the  dead.  The 
sharp  note  of  a  bugle  rang  in  the  air:  they  were 
changing  guard,  I.,suppose,  in  Wolsey's  Palace. 

Ill 

IN  time  I  did  discover  a  skiff  moored  in  a  little- 
visited  creek,  which  the  boatman  got  out  for  me. 
The  sculls  were  rough  and  shapeless  —  it  is  a  re- 
markable fact  that  sculls  always  are,  unless  you 
have  them  made  and  keep  them  for  your  own  use. 
I  paddled  up  the  river;  I  paused  by  an  osier-grown 
islet;  I  slipped  past  the  barges,  and  avoided  an  un- 
skilful party  ;  it  was  the  morning,  and  none  of  the 
uproarious  as  yet  were  about.  Certainly,  it  was 
very  pleasant.  The  sunshine  gleamed  on  the  water, 
broad  shadows  of  trees  fell  across  ;  swans  floated  in 
the  by-channels.  A  peacefulness  which  peculiarly 
belongs  to  water  hovered  above  the  river.  A  house- 
boat was  moored  near  the  willow-grown  shore,  and 
it  was  evidently  inhabited,  for  there  was  a  fire  smoul- 
dering on  the  bank,  and  some  linen  that  had  been 
washed  spread  on  the  bushes  to  bleach.  All  the 
windows  of  this  gipsy-van  of  the  river  were  wide 
open,  and  the  air  and  light  entered  freely  into 
every  part  of  the  dwelling-house  under  which 
flowed  the  stream.  A  lady  was  dressing  herself 
-156- 


THE    MODERN    THAMES 

before  one  of  these  open  windows,  twining  up 
large  braids  of  dark  hair,  her  large  arms  bare  to 
the  shoulder,  and  somewhat  farther.  I  immedi- 
ately steered  out  into  the  channel  to  avoid  intru- 
sion ;  but  I  felt  that  she  was  regarding  me  with 
all  a  matron's  contempt  for  an  unknown  man  —  a 
mere  member  of  the  opposite  sex,  not  introduced, 
or  of  her  "  set."  I  was  merely  a  man,  —  no  more 
than  a  horse  on  the  bank,  —  and  had  she  been  in 
her  smock  she  would  have  been  just  as  indifferent. 
Certainly  it  was  a  lovely  morning;  the  old  red 
palace  of  the  Cardinal  seemed  to  slumber  amid  its 
trees,  as  if  the  passage  of  the  centuries  had  stroked 
and  soothed  it  into  indolent  peace.  The  meadows 
rested ;  even  the  swallows,  the  restless  swallows, 
glided  in  an  effortless  way  through  the  busy  air. 
I  could  see  this,  and  yet  I  did  not  quite  enjoy  it ; 
something  drew  me  away  from  perfect  content- 
ment, and  gradually  it  dawned  upon  me  that  it 
was  the  current  causing  an  unsuspected  amount 
of  labour  in  sculling.  The  forceless  particles  of 
water,  so  yielding  to  the  touch,  which  slipped  aside 
at  the  motion  of  the  oar,  in  their  countless  myriads 
ceaselessly  flowing  grew  to  be  almost  a  solid  ob- 
struction to  the  boat.  I  had  not  noticed  it  for  a 
mile  or  so  ;  now  the  pressure  of  the  stream  was 
becoming  evident.  I  persuaded  myself  that  it  was 
nothing.  I  held  on  by  the  boathook  to  a  root  and 
—  157  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


rested,  and  so  went  on  again.  Another  mile  or 
more ;  another  rest  :  decidedly  sculling  against  a 
swift  current  is  work  —  downright  work.  You 
have  no  energy  ^ to  spare  over  and  above  that 
needed  for  the  labour  of  rowing,  not  enough 
even  to  look  round  and  admire  the  green  loveli- 
ness of  the  shore.  I  began  to  think  that  I  should 
not  get  as  far  as  Oxford  after  all. 

By-and-by  I  began  to  question  if  rowing  on  a 
river  is  as  pleasant  as  rowing  on  a  lake,  where  you 
can  rest  on  your  oars  without  losing  ground,  where 
no  current  opposes  progress,  and  after  the  stroke 
the  boat  slips  ahead  some  distance  of  its  own  im- 
petus. On  the  river  the  boat  only  travels  as  far  as 
you  actually  pull  it  at  each  stroke ;  there  is  no  life 
in  it  after  the  scull  is  lifted,  the  impetus  dies,  and 
the  craft  first  pauses  and  then  drifts  backward.  I 
crept  along  the  shore,  so  near  that  one  scull  oc- 
casionally grounded,  to  avoid  the  main  force  of 
the  water,  which  is  in  the  middle  of  the  river.  I 
slipped  behind  eyots  and  tried  all  I  knew.  In  vain, 
the  river  was  stronger  than  I,  and  my  arms  could 
not  for  many  hours  contend  with  the  Thames.  So 
faded  another  part  of  my  dream.  The  idea  of  row- 
ing from  one  town  to  another  —  of  expeditions  and 
travelling  across  the  country,  so  pleasant  to  think 
of — in  practice  became  impossible.  An  athlete 
bent  on  nothing  but  athleticism — a  canoeist  think- 
_iS8_ 


THE    MODERN    THAMES       SE^K 

ing  of  nothing  but  his  canoe  —  could  accomplish  it, 
setting  himself  daily  so  much  work  to  do,  and  reso- 
lutely performing  it.  A  dreamer,  who  wanted  to 
enjoy  his  passing  moment  and  not  to  keep  regular 
time  with  his  strokes,  who  wanted  to  gather  flow- 
ers and  indulge  his  luxurious  eyes  with  effects  of 
light  and  shadow  and  colour,  could  not  succeed. 
The  river  is  for  the  man  of  might. 

With  a  weary  back  at  last  I  gave  up  the  struggle 
at  the  foot  of  a  weir,  almost  in  the  splash  of  the  cas- 
cade. My  best  friend,  the  boothook,  kept  me  sta- 
tionary without  effort,  and  in  time  rest  restored  the 
strained  muscles  to  physical  equanimity.  The  roar 
of  the  river  falling  over  the  dam  soothed  the  mind 
—  the  sense  of  an  immense  power  at  hand,  work- 
ing with  all  its  might  while  you  are  at  ease,  has  a 
strangely  soothing  influence.  It  makes  me  sleepy 
to  see  the  vast  beam  of  an  engine  regularly  rise  and 
fall  in  ponderous  irresistible  labour.  Now  at  last 
some  fragment  of  my  fancy  was  realised  —  a  myr- 
iad myriad  rushing  bubbles  whitening  the  stream 
burst,  and  were  instantly  succeeded  by  myriads 
more  ;  the  boat  faintly  vibrated  as  the  wild  waters 
shot  beneath  it;  the  green  cascade,  smooth  at  its 
first  curve,  dashed  itself  into  the  depth  beneath, 
broken  to  a  million  million  particles ;  the  eddies 
whirled,  and  sucked,  and  sent  tiny  whirlpools  ro- 
tating along  the  surface  ;  the  roar  rose  or  lessened 
—  159  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

in  intensity  as  the  velocity  of  the  wind  varied  ;  sun- 
light sparkled  —  the  warmth  inclined  the  senses  to 
a  drowsy  idleness.  Yonder  was  the  trout  fisher- 
man, just  as  I  had.  imagined  him,  casting  and  cast- 
ing again  with  that  transcendental  patience  which  is 
genius ;  his  line  and  the  top  of  his  rod  formed  mo- 
mentary curves  pleasant  to  look  at.  The  kingfisher 
did  not  come  —  no  doubt  he  had  been  shot  —  but 
a  reed-sparrow  did,  in  velvet  black  cap  and  dainty 
brown,  pottering  about  the  willow  near  me.  This 
was  really  like  the  beautiful  river  I  had  dreamed  of. 
If  only  we  could  persuade  ourselves  to  remain  qui- 
escent when  we  are  happy  !  If  only  we  would  re- 
main still  in  the  armchair  as  the  last  curl  of  vapour 
rises  from  a  cigar  that  has  been  enjoyed  !  If  only 
we  would  sit  still  in  the  shadow  and  not  go  indoors 
to  write  that  letter  !  Let  happiness  alone.  Stir  not 
an  inch  ;  speak  not  a  word  :  happiness  is  a  coy 
maiden  —  hold  her  hand  and  be  still. 

In  an  evil  moment  I  spied  the  corner  of  a  news- 
paper projecting  from  the  pocket  of  my  coat  in  the 
stern-sheets.  Folly  led  me  to  open  that  news- 
paper, and  in  it  I  saw  and  read  a  ghastly  paragraph. 
Two  ladies  and  a  gentleman  while  boating  had 
been  carried  by  the  current  against  the  piles  of  a 
weir.  The  boat  upset ;  the  ladies  were  rescued, 
but  the  unfortunate  gentleman  was  borne  over 
the  fall  and  drowned.  His  body  had  not  been 
— 160  — 


THE    MODERN    THAMES 

recovered  j  men  were  watching  the  pool  day  and 
night  till  some  chance  eddy  should  bring  it  to  the 
surface.  So  perished  my  dream,  and  the  coy- 
maiden  happiness  left  me  because  I  could  not  be 
content  to  be  silent  and  still.  The  accident  had 
not  happened  at  this  weir,  but  it  made  no  differ- 
ence ;  I  could  see  all  as  plainly.  A  white  face, 
blurred  and  indistinct,  seemed  to  rise  up  from  be- 
neath the  rushing  bubbles  till,  just  as  it  was  about 
to  jump  to  the  surface,  as  things  do  that  come  up, 
down  it  was  drawn  again  by  that  terrible  underpull 
which  has  been  fatal  to  so  many  good  swimmers. 

Who  can  keep  afloat  with  a  force  underneath 
dragging  at  the  feet  ?  Who  can  swim  when  the 
water  —  all  bubbles,  that  is,  air  —  gives  no  resistance 
to  the  hands  ?  Hands  and  feet  slip  through  the 
bubbles.  You  might  as  well  spring  from  the  para- 
pet of  a  house  and  think  to  float  by  striking  out  as 
to  swim  in  such  a  medium.  Sinking  under,  a  hun- 
dred tons  of  water  drive  the  body  to  the  bottom ; 
there  it  rotates,  it  rises,  it  is  forced  down  again, 
a  hundred  tons  of  water  beat  upon  it ;  the  foot, 
perhaps,  catches  among  stones  or  woodwork,  and 
what  was  once  a  living  being  is  imprisoned  in  death. 
Enough  of  this.  I  unloosed  the  boathook,  and 
drifted  down  with  the  stream,  anxious  to  get  away 
from  the  horrible  weir. 

These  accidents,  which  are  entirely  preventable, 
"  — 161  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


happen  year  after  year  with  lamentable  monotony. 
Each  weir  is  a  little  Niagara,  and  a  boat  once  within 
its  influence  is  certain  to  be  driven  to  destruction. 
The  current  carries  it  against  the  piles,  where  it  is 
either  broken  or  upset,  the  natural  and  reasonable 
alarm  of  the  occupants  increasing  the  risk.  In  de- 
scending the  river  every  boat  must  approach  the 
weir,  and  must  pass  within  a  few  yards  of  the 
dangerous  current.  If  there  is  a  press  of  boats  one 
is  often  forced  out  of  the  proper  course  into  the 
rapid  part  of  the  stream  without  any  negligence  on 
the  part  of  those  in  it.  There  is  nothing  to  prevent 
this  —  no  fence,  or  boom  ;  no  mark,  even,  between 
what  is  dangerous  and  what  is  not ;  no  division 
whatever.  Persons  ignorant  of  the  river  may  just 
as  likely  as  not  row  right  into  danger.  A  vague 
caution  on  a  notice-board  may  or  may  not  be  seen ; 
in  either  case  it  gives  no  directions,  and  is  certainly 
no  protection.  Let  the  matter  be  argued  from 
whatever  point  of  view,  the  fact  remains  that  these 
accidents  occur  from  the  want  of  an  efficient 
division  between  the  dangerous  and  the  safe  part  of 
the  approach  to  a  weir.  A  boom  or  some  kind 
of  fence  is  required,  and  how  extraordinary  it 
seems  that  nothing  of  the  kind  is  done  !  It  is  not 
done  because  there  is  no  authority,  no  control,  no 
one  responsible.  Two  or  three  gentlemen  ac- 
quainted with  aquatics  could  manage  the  river  from 
—  162  — 


THE    MODERN    THAMES 

end  to  end,  to  the  safety  and  satisfaction  of  all,  if 
they  were  entrusted  with  discretionary  powers.  Stiff 
rules  and  rigid  control  are  not  needed  ;  what  is 
wanted  is  a  rational  power  freely  using  its  dis- 
cretion. I  do  not  mean  a  Board  with  its  attendant 
follies ;  I  mean  a  small  committee,  unfettered,  un- 
trammelled by  "  legal  advisers"  and  so  forth,  merely 
using  their  own  good  sense. 

I  drifted  away  from  the  weir — now  grown 
hideous — and  out  of  hearing  of  its  wailing  dirge  for 
the  unfortunate.  I  drifted  past  more  barges  coming 
up,  and  more  steam-tugs ;  past  river  lawns,  where 
gay  parties  were  now  sipping  claret-cup  or  playing 
tennis.  By-and-by  I  began  to  meet  pleasure-boats 
and  to  admire  their  manner  of  progress.  First 
there  came  a  gentleman  in  white  flannels,  walking 
on  the  tow-path,  with  a  rope  round  his  waist, 
towing  a  boat  in  which  two  ladies  were  comfortably 
seated.  In  a  while  came  two  more  gentlemen  in 
striped  flannels,  one  streaked  with  gold,  the  other 
with  scarlet,  striding  side  by  side  and  towing  a  boat 
in  which  sat  one  lady.  They  were  very  earnestly 
at  work,  pacing  in  step,  their  bodies  slightly  leaning 
forwards,  and  every  now  and  then  they  mopped 
their  faces  with  handkerchiefs  which  they  carried 
in  their  girdles.  Something  in  their  slightly  bowed 
attitude  reminded  me  of  the  captives  depicted  on 
Egyptian  monuments,  with  cords  about  their  necks. 
-163- 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

How  curious  is  that  instinct  which  makes  each  sex, 
in  different  ways,  the  willing  slave  of  the  other ! 
These  human  steam-tugs  paced  and  pulled,  and 
drew  the  varnished  craft  swiftly  against  the  stream, 
evidently  determined  to  do  a  certain  distance  by  a 
certain  hour.  As  I  drifted  by  without  labour,  I 
admired  them  very  much.  An  interval,  and  still 
more  gentlemen  in  flannel,  labouring  like  galley- 
slaves  at  the  tow-rope,  hot,  perspiring,  and  happy 
after  their  kind,  and  ladies  under  parasols,  comfort- 
ably seated,  cool,  and  happy  after  their  kind. 

Considering  upon  these  things,  I  began  to  dis- 
cern the  true  and  only  manner  in  which  the 
modern  Thames  is  to  be  enjoyed.  Above  all  things 
—  nothing  heroic.  Don't  scull  —  don't  row  — 
don't  haul  at  tow-ropes  —  don't  swim  —  don't 
flourish  a  fishing-rod.  Set  your  mind  at  ease. 
Make  friends  with  two  or  more  athletes,  thorough 
good  fellows,  good-natured,  delighting  in  their 
thews  and  sinews.  Explain  to  them  that  somehow, 
don't  you  see,  nature  did  not  bless  you  with  such 
superabundant  muscularity,  although  there  is  noth- 
ing under  the  sun  you  admire  so  much.  Forthwith 
these  good  fellows  will  pet  you,  and  your  Thames 
fortune  is  made.  You  take  your  place  in  the  stern- 
sheets,  happily  protected  on  either  side  by  feminine 
human  nature,  and  the  parasols  meeting  above 
shield  you  from  the  sun.  The  tow-rope  is  ad- 
— 164  — 


THE    MODERN    THAMES 

justed,  and  the  tugs  start.  The  gliding  motion 
soothes  the  soul.  Feminine  boating  nature  has  no 
antipathy  to  the  cigarette.  A  delicious  odour,  soft 
as  new-mown  hay,  a  hint  of  spices  and  distant 
flowers  —  sunshine  dried  and  preserved,  sunshine 
you  can  handle  —  rises  from  the  smouldering  fibres. 
This  is  smoking  summer  itself.  Yonder  in  the 
fore  part  of  the  craft  I  espy  certain  vessels  of  glass 
on  which  is  the  label  of  Epernay.  And  of  such 
is  peace. 

Drifting  ever  downwards,  I  approached  the 
creek  where  my  skiff  had  to  be  left ;  but  before  I 
reached  it  a  "  beach-comber,"  with  a  coil  of  cord 
over  his  shoulder,  asked  me  if  he  should  tow  me 
"  up  to  'Ampton."  I  shook  my  head,  whereupon 
he  abused  me  in  such  choice  terms  that  I  listened 
abashed  at  my  ignorance.  It  had  never  occurred  to 
me  that  swearing  could  be  done  like  that.  It  is  true 
we  have  been  swearing  now,  generation  after  gen- 
eration, these  eight  thousand  years  for  certain,  and 
language  expands  with  use.  It  is  also  true  that  we 
are  all  educated  now.  Shakespeare  is  credited  with 
knowing  everything,  past  or  future,  but  I  doubt 
if  he  knew  how  a  Thames  "  beach-comber "  can 
curse  in  these  days. 

The  Thames  is  swearing  free.  You  must  mod- 
erate your  curses  on  the  Queen's  highway ;  you 
must  not  be  even  profane  in  the  streets,  lest  you 
-165- 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


be  taken  before  the  magistrates ;  but  on  the 
Thames  you  may  swear  as  the  wind  blows  — 
howsoever  you  list.  You  may  begin  at  the  mouth, 
off  the  Nore,  and  <;urse  your  way  up  to  Cricklade. 
A  hundred  miles  for  swearing  is  a  fine  preserve. 
It  is  one  of  the  marvels  of  our  civilisation. 

Aided  by  scarce  a  touch  of  the  sculls,  the  stream 
drifted  me  up  into  the  creek,  and  the  boatman 
took  charge  of  his  skiff.  "  Shall  I  keep  her  handy 
for  you,  sir?"  he  said,  thinking  to  get  me  down 
every  day  as  a  newcomer.  I  begged  him  not  to 
put  himself  to  any  trouble,  still  he  repeated  that  he 
would  keep  her  ready.  But  in  the  road  I  shook 
off  the  dust  of  my  feet  against  the  river,  and 
earnestly  resolved  never,  never  again  to  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  it  (in  the  heroic  way)  lower 
down  than  Henley. 


— 166  — 


THE  SINGLE-BARREL  GUN 


single-barrel  gun  has  passed  out  of 
modern  sport;  but  I  remember  mine 
with  regret,  and  think  I  shall  some  day 
buy  another.  I  still  find  that  the  best 
double-barrel  seems  top-heavy  in  comparison ;  in 
poising  it  the  barrels  have  a  tendency  to  droop. 
Guns,  of  course,  are  built  to  balance  and  lie  level 
in  the  hand,  so  as  to  almost  aim  themselves  as  they 
come  to  the  shoulder ;  and  those  who  have  always 
shot  with  a  double-barrel  are  probably  quite  satisfied 
with  the  gun  on  that  score.  To  me  there  seems 
too  much  weight  in  the  left  hand  and  towards  the 
end  of  the  gun.  Quickness  of  firing  keeps  the 
double-barrel  to  the  front ;  but  suppose  a  repeater 
were  to  be  invented,  some  day,  capable  of  dis- 
charging two  cartridges  in  immediate  succession  ? 
And  if  two  cartridges,  why  not  three  ?  An  easy 
thought,  but  a  very  difficult  one  to  realise.  Some- 
thing in  the  power  of  the  double-barrel  —  the  over- 
whelming odds  it  affords  the  sportsman  over  bird 
and  animal  —  pleases.  A  man  feels  master  of  the 
copse  with  a  double-barrel ;  and  such  a  sense  of 
-167- 


TH  E    OPEN    AIR 

power,  though  only  over  feeble  creatures,  is  fasci- 
nating. Besides,  there  is  the  delight  of  effect ;  for 
a  clever  right  and  left  is  sure  of  applause,  and 
makes  the  gunner  feel  "  good  "  in  himself.  Doubt- 
less, if  three  barrels  could  be  managed,  three  barrels 
would  be  more  salable  than  doubles.  One  gun- 
maker  has  a  four-barrel  gun,  quite  a  light  weight 
too,  which  would  be  a  tremendous  success  if  the 
creatures  would  obligingly  run  and  fly  a  little 
slower,  so  that  all  four  cartridges  could  be  got 
in.  But  that  they  will  not  do.  For  the  present, 
the  double-barrel  is  the  gun  of  the  time. 

Still  I  mean  some  day  to  buy  a  single-barrel,  and 
wander  with  it  as  of  old  along  the  hedges,  aware 
that  if  I  am  not  skilful  enough  to  bring  down  with 
the  first  shot  I  shall  lose  my  game.  It  is  sur- 
prising how  confident  of  that  one  shot  you  may 
get  after  a  while.  On  the  one  hand,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  be  extremely  keen  ;  on  the  other,  to  be  sure 
of  your  own  self-control,  not  to  fire  uselessly. 
The  bramble-bushes  on  the  shore  of  the  ditch 
ahead  might  cover  a  hare.  Through  the  dank  and 
dark-green  aftermath  a  rabbit  might  suddenly  come 
bounding,  disturbed  from  the  furrow  where  he  had 
been  feeding.  On  the  sandy  paths  which  the 
rabbits  have  made  aslant  up  the  mound,  and  on 
their  terraces,  where  they  sit  and  look  out  from 
under  the  boughs,  acorns  have  dropped  ripe  from 

— 168  — 


THE    SINGLE-BARREL    GUN 

the  tree.  Where  there  are  acorns  there  may  be 
pheasants;  they  may  crouch  in  the  fern  and  dry 
grey  grass  of  the  hedge  thinking  you  do  not  see 
them,  or  else  rush  through  and  take  wing  on  the 
opposite  side.  The  only  chance  of  a  shot  is  as 
the  bird  passes  a  gap  —  visible  while  flying  a  yard 
—  just  time  to  pull  the  trigger.  But  I  would 
rather  have  that  chance  than  have  to  fire  between 
the  bars  of  a  gate ;  for  the  horizontal  lines  cause 
an  optical  illusion,  making  the  object  appear  in  a 
different  position  from  what  it  really  is  in,  and 
half  the  pellets  are  sure  to  be  buried  in  the  rails. 
Wood-pigeons,  when  eagerly  stuffing  their  crops 
with  acorns,  sometimes  forget  their  usual  caution ; 
and,  walking  slowly,  I  have  often  got  right  under- 
neath one — as  unconscious  of  his  presence  as  he 
was  of  mine,  till  a  sudden  dashing  of  wings  against 
boughs  and  leaves  announced  his  departure.  This 
he  always  makes  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  oak, 
so  as  to  have  the  screen  of  the  thick  branches  be- 
tween himself  and  the  gunner.  The  wood-pigeon, 
starting  like  this  from  a  tree,  usually  descends  in  the 
first  part  of  his  flight,  a  gentle  downward  curve  fol- 
lowed by  an  upward  rise,  and  thus  comes  into  view 
at  the  lower  part  of  the  curve.  He  still  seems  within 
shot,  and  to  afford  a  good  mark  ;  and  yet  experience 
has  taught  me  that  it  is  generally  in  vain  to  fire. 
His  stout  quills  protect  him  at  the  full  range  of  the 
— 169  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


gun.  Besides,  a  wasted  shot  alarms  everything 
within  several  hundred  yards ;  and  in  stalking  with 
a  single-barrel  it  needs  as  much  knowledge  to  choose 
when  not  to  fire  as.  when  you  may. 

The  most  exciting  work  with  the  single-barrel 
was  woodcock  shooting ;  woodcock  being  by  virtue 
of  rarity  a  sort  of  royal  game,  and  a  miss  at  a 
woodcock  a  terrible  disappointment.  They  have 
a  trick  of  skimming  along  the  very  summit  of  a 
hedge,  and  looking  so  easy  to  kill ;  but,  as  they  fly, 
the  tops  of  tall  briers  here,  willow-rods  next,  or  an 
ash  pole  often  intervene,  and  the  result  is  apt  to  be 
a  bough  cut  off  and  nothing  more.  Snipes,  on  the 
contrary,  I  felt  sure  of  with  the  single-barrel,  and 
never  could  hit  them  so  well  with  a  double.  Either 
at  starting,  before  the  snipe  got  into  his  twist,  or 
waiting  till  he  had  finished  that  uncertain  move- 
ment, the  single-barrel  seemed  to  drop  the  shot  with 
certainty.  This  was  probably  because  of  its  perfect 
natural  balance,  so  that  it  moved  as  if  on  a  pivot. 
With  the  single  I  had  nothing  to  manage  but  my 
own  arms  ;  with  the  other  I  was  conscious  that  I 
had  a  gun  also.  With  the  single  I  could  kill  farther, 
no  matter  what  it  was.  The  single  was  quicker  at 
short  shots  —  snap-shots,  as  at  rabbits  darting  across 
a  narrow  lane  ;  and  surer  at  long  shots,  as  at  a  hare 
put  out  a  good  way  ahead  by  the  dog. 

For  everything  but  the  multiplication  of  slaughter 
—  170— 


53C  THE    SINGLE-BARREL    GUN  SE 


I  liked  the  single  best ;  I  had  more  of  the  sense  of 
woodcraft  with  it.  When  we  consider  how  helpless 
a  partridge  is,  for  instance,  before  the  fierce  blow 
of  shot,  it  does  seem  fairer  that  the  gunner  should 
have  but  one  chance  at  the  bird.  Partridges  at  least 
might  be  kept  for  single-barrels:  great  bags  of  par- 
tridges never  seemed  to  me  quite  right.  Somehow 
it  seems  to  me  that  to  take  so  much  advantage  as 
the  double-barrel  confers  is  not  altogether  in  the 
spirit  of  sport.  The  double-barrel  gives  no  "law." 
At  least  to  those  who  love  the  fields,  the  streams, 
and  woods  for  their  own  sake,  the  single-barrel  will 
fill  the  bag  sufficiently,  and  will  permit  them  to  enjoy 
something  of  the  zest  men  knew  before  the  invention 
of  weapons  not  only  of  precision  but  of  repetition : 
inventions  that  rendered  them  too  absolute  masters 
of  the  situation.  A  single-barrel  will  soon  make  a 
sportsman  the  keenest  of  shots.  The  gun  itself  can 
be  built  to  an  exquisite  perfection  —  lightness,  handi- 
ness,  workmanship,  and  performance  of  the  very  best. 
It  is  said  that  you  can  change  from  a  single-barrel 
shot-gun  to  a  sporting  rifle  and  shoot  with  the  rifle 
almost  at  once;  while  many  who  have  been  used  to 
the  slap-dash  double  cannot  do  anything  for  some 
time  with  a  rifle.  More  than  one  African  explorer 
has  found  his  single-barrel  smooth-bore  the  most  use- 
ful of  all  the  pieces  in  his  battery ;  though,  of  course, 
of  much  larger  calibre  than  required  in  our  fields. 
—  171  — 


THE  HAU^T   OF  THE   HARE 


IT  is  never  so  much  winter  in  the  country  as 
it  is  in  the  town.  The  trees  are  still  there, 
and  in  and  about  them  birds  remain.  "Quip! 
whip  !  "  sounds  from  the  elms  ;  "  Whip  ! 
quip! "  Redwing  thrushes  threaten  with  the  "whip  " 
those  who  advance  towards  them;  they  spend  much 
of  the  day  in  the  elm-tops.  Thick  tussocks  of  old 
grass  are  conspicuous  at  the  skirt  of  a  hedge ;  half 
green,  half  grey,  they  contrast  with  the  bare  thorn. 
From  behind  one  of  these  tussocks  a  hare  starts,  his 
black-tipped  ears  erect,  his  long  hinder  limbs  throw- 
ing him  almost  like  a  grasshopper  over  the  sward — 
no  creature  looks  so  handsome  or  startling,  and  it  is 
always  a  pleasant  surprise  to  see  him.  Pheasant  or 
partridge  do  not  surprise  in  the  least  —  they  are  no 
more  than  any  other  bird;  but  a  hare  causes  quite  a 
different  feeling.  He  is  perfectly  wild,  unfed,  un- 
tended,  and  then  he  is  the  largest  animal  to  be  shot 
in  the  fields.  A  rabbit  slips  along  the  mound,  under 
bushes  and  behind  stoles,  but  a  hare  bolts  for  the 
open  and  hopes  in  his  speed.  He  leaves  the  strain- 
ing spaniel  behind,  and  the  distance  between  them 


HAUNT    OF    THE 

increases  as  they  go.  The  spaniel's  broad  hind 
paws  are  thrown  wide  apart  as  he  runs,  striking 
outwards  as  well  as  backwards,  and  his  large  ears 
are  lifted  by  the  wind  of  his  progress.  Overtaken 
by  the  cartridge,  still  the  hare,  as  he  lies  in  the  dewy 
grass,  is  handsome ;  lift  him  up  and  his  fur  is  full 
of  colour,  there  are  layers  of  tint,  shadings  of  brown 
within  it,  one  under  the  other,  and  the  surface  is 
exquisitely  clean.  The  colours  are  not  really  bright, 
at  least  not  separately;  but  they  are  so  clean  and  so 
clear  that  they  give  an  impression  of  warmth  and 
brightness.  Even  in  the  excitement  of  sport  regret 
cannot  but  be  felt  at  the  sight  of  those  few  drops  of 
blood  about  the  mouth  which  indicate  that  all  this 
beautiful  workmanship  must  now  cease  to  be.  Had 
he  escaped  the  sportsman  would  not  have  been 
displeased. 

The  black  bud-sheaths  of  the  ash  may  furnish  a 
comparison  for  his  ear-tips ;  the  brown  brake  in  Oc- 
tober might  give  one  hue  for  his  fur ;  the  yellow  or 
buff  bryony  leaf  perhaps  another ;  the  clematis  is  not 
whiter  than  the  white  part.  His  colours,  as  those 
of  so  many  of  our  native  wild  creatures,  appear 
selected  from  the  woods,  as  if  they  had  been  gath- 
ered and  skilfully  mingled  together.  They  can  be 
traced  or  paralleled  in  the  trees,  the  bushes,  grasses, 
or  flowers,  as  if  extracted  from  them  by  a  secret 
alchemy.  In  the  plumage  of  the  partridge  there 
—  173  — 


THE     OPEN     AIR 


are  tints  that  may  be  compared  with  the  brown 
corn,  the  brown  ripe  grains  rubbed  from  the  ear ; 
it  is  in  the  cornfields  that  the  partridge  delights. 
There  the  young  brood  are  sheltered,  there  they  feed 
and  grow  plump.  The  red  tips  of  other  feathers 
are  reflections  of  the  red  sorrel  of  the  meadows. 
The  grey  fur  of  the  rabbit  resembles  the  grey  ash 
hue  of  the  underwood  in  which  he  hides. 

A  common  plant  in  moist  places,  the  figwort, 
bears  small  velvety  flowers,  much  the  colour  of 
the  red  velvet  topknot  of  the  goldfinch,  the  yellow 
on  whose  wings  is  like  the  yellow  bloom  of  the 
furze  which  he  frequents  in  the  winter,  perching 
cleverly  on  its  prickly  extremities.  In  the  woods, 
in  the  bark  of  the  trees,  the  varied  shades  of  the 
branches  as  their  size  diminishes,  the  adhering  li- 
chens, the  stems  of  the  underwood,  now  grey,  now 
green  ;  the  dry  stalks  of  plants,  brown,  white,  or 
dark,  all  the  innumerable  minor  hues  that  cross  and 
interlace,  there  is  suggested  the  woven  texture  of 
tints  found  on  the  wings  of  birds.  For  brighter 
tones  the  autumn  leaves  can  be  resorted  to,  and  in 
summer  the  finches  rising  from  the  grass  spring  up- 
wards from  among  flowers  that  could  supply  them 
with  all  their  colours.  But  it  is  not  so  much  the 
brighter  as  the  under  tones  that  seem  to  have  been 
drawn  from  the  woodlands  or  fields.  Although  no 
such  influence  has  really  been  exerted  by  the  trees 
—  174  — 


THE    HAUNT    OF   THE 

and  plants  upon  the  living  creatures,  yet  it  is  pleas- 
ant to  trace  the  analogy.  Those  who  would  con- 
vert it  into  a  scientific  fact  are  met  with  a  dilemma 
to  which  they  are  usually  oblivious,  /'.  e.  that  most 
birds  migrate,  and  the  very  tints  which  in  this 
country  might  perhaps,  by  a  stretch  of  argument,  be 
supposed  to  conceal  them,  in  a  distant  climate  with  a 
different  foliage,  or  none,  would  render  them  con- 
spicuous. Yet  it  is  these  analogies  and  imaginative 
comparisons  which  make  the  country  so  delightful. 

One  day  in  autumn,  after  toiling  with  their  guns, 
which  are  heavy  in  the  September  heats,  across  the 
fields  and  over  the  hills,  the  hospitable  owner  of  the 
place  suddenly  asked  his  weary  and  thirsty  friend 
which  he  would  have,  champagne,  ale,  or  spirits. 
They  were  just  then  in  the  midst  of  a  cover,  the 
trees  kept  off  the  wind,  the  afternoon  sun  was  warm, 
and  thirst  very  natural.  They  had  not  been  shoot- 
ing in  the  cover,  but  had  to  pass  through  to  other 
cornfields.  It  seemed  a  sorry  jest  to  ask  which 
would  be  preferred  in  that  lonely  and  deserted  spot, 
miles  from  home  or  any  house  whence  refreshment 
could  be  obtained  —  wine,  spirits,  or  ale  ?  —  an  ab- 
surd question,  and  irritating  under  the  circumstan- 
ces. As  it  was  repeated  persistently,  however,  the 
reply  was  at  length  given,  in  no  very  good  humour, 
and  wine  chosen.  Forthwith  putting  down  his  gun, 
the  interrogator  pushed  in  among  the  underwood, 
—  175  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


and  from  a  cavity  concealed  beneath  some  bushes 
drew  forth  a  bottle  of  champagne.  He  had  sev- 
eral of  these  stores  hidden  in  various  parts  of  the 
domain,  ready  whichever  way  the  chance  of  sport 
should  direct  their  footsteps. 

Now  the  dry  wild  parsnip,  or  "  gicks,"  five  feet 
high,  stands  dead  and  dry,  its  jointed  tube  of  dark 
stem  surmounted  with  circular  frills  or  umbels  ; 
the  teazle  heads  are  brown,  the  great  burdocks  leaf- 
less, and  their  burs,  still  adhering,  are  withered  ;  the 
ground,  almost  free  of  obstruction,  is  comparatively 
easy  to  search  over,  but  the  old  sportsman  is  too 
cunning  to  bury  his  wine  twice  in  the  same  place, 
and  it  is  no  use  to  look  about.  No  birds  in  last 
year's  nest  —  the  winds  have  torn  and  upset  the 
mossy  structures  in  the  bushes ;  no  champagne  in 
last  year's  cover.  The  driest  place  is  under  the  firs, 
where  the  needles  have  fallen  and  strew  the  surface 
thickly.  Outside  the  wood,  in  the  waggon  track,  the 
beech  leaves  lie  on  the  side  of  the  mound,  dry  and 
shrivelled  at  the  top,  but  stir  them,  and  under  the  top 
layer  they  still  retain  the  clear  brown  of  autumn. 

The  ivy  trailing  on  the  bank  is  moist  and  freshly 
green.  There  are  two  tints  of  moss  ;  one  light,  the 
other  deeper  —  both  very  pleasant  and  restful  to 
the  eye.  These  beds  of  moss  are  the  greenest  and 
brightest  of  the  winter's  colours.  Besides  these 
there  are  ale-hoof,  or  ground-ivy  leaves  (not  the  ivy 
-176- 


HAUNT    OF    THE 

that  climbs  trees),  violet  leaves,  celandine  mars, 
primrose  mars,  foxglove  mars,  teazle  mars,  and 
barren  strawberry  leaves,  all  green  in  the  midst  of 
winter.  One  tiny  white  flower  of  barren  straw- 
berry has  ventured  to  bloom.  Round  about  the 
lower  end  of  each  maple  stick,  just  at  the  ground, 
is  a  green  wrap  of  moss.  Though  leafless  above, 
it  is  green  at  the  foot.  At  the  verge  of  the  ploughed 
field  below,  exposed  as  it  is,  chickweed,  groundsel, 
and  shepherd's-purse  are  flowering.  About  a  little 
thorn  there  hang  withered  red  berries  of  bryony,  as 
if  the  bare  thorn  bore  fruit ;  the  bine  of  the  climb- 
ing plant  clings  to  it  still ;  there  are  traces  of  "  old 
man's  beard,"  the  white  fluffy  relics  of  clematis 
bloom,  stained  brown  by  the  weather ;  green  cat- 
kins droop  thickly  on  the  hazel.  Every  step  pre- 
sents some  item  of  interest,  and  thus  it  is  that  it 
is  never  so  much  winter  in  the  country.  Where 
fodder  has  been  thrown  down  in  a  pasture  field  for 
horses,  a  black  congregation  of  rooks  has  crowded 
together  in  a  ring.  A  solitary  pole  for  trapping 
hawks  stands  on  the  sloping  ground  outside  the 
cover.  These  poles  are  visited  every  morning 
when  the  trap  is  there,  and  the  captured  crea- 
ture put  out  of  pain.  Of  the  cruelty  of  the  trap 
itself  there  can  be  no  doubt ;  but  it  is  very  unjust 
to  assume  that  therefore  those  connected  with  sport 
are  personally  cruel.  In  a  farmhouse  much  fre- 
i*  —177  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


quented  by  rats,  and  from  which  they  cannot  be 
driven  out,  these  animals  are  said  to  have  discov- 
ered a  means  of  defying  the  gin  set  for  them. 
One  such  gin  was. placed  in  the  cheese-room,  near 
a  hole  from  which  they  issued,  but  they  dragged 
together  pieces  of  straw,  little  fragments  of  wood, 
and  various  odds  and  ends,  and  so  covered  the  pan 
that  the  trap  could  not  spring.  They  formed,  in 
fact,  a  bridge  over  it. 

Red  and  yellow  fungi  mark  decaying  places  on 
the  trunks  and  branches  of  the  trees ;  their  colour 
is  brightest  when  the  boughs  are  bare.  By  a 
streamlet  wandering  into  the  osier  beds  the  winter 
gnats  dance  in  the  sunshine,  round  about  an  old 
post  covered  with  ivy,  on  which  green  berries  are 
thick.  The  warm  sunshine  gladdens  the  hearts  of 
the  moorhens  floating  on  the  water  yonder  by  the 
bushes,  and  their  singular  note,  "  coorg-ccorg,"  is 
uttered  at  intervals.  In  the  plantation  close  to  the 
house  a  fox  resides  as  safe  as  King  Louis  in 
"  Quentin  Durward,"  surrounded  with  his  guards 
and  archers  and  fortified  towers,  though  tokens  of 
his  midnight  rambles,  in  the  shape  of  bones,  strew 
the  front  of  his  castle.  He  crosses  the  lawn  in 
sight  of  the  windows  occasionally,  as  if  he  really 
knew  and  understood  that  his  life  is  absolutely  safe 
at  ordinary  times,and  that  he  need  beware  of  nothing 
but  the  hounds. 

-178- 


THE  BATHING  SEASON 


OST  people  who  go  on  the  West 
Pier  at  Brighton  walk  at  once 
straight  to  the  farthest  part.  This 
is  the  order  and  custom  of  pier 
promenading ;  you  are  to  stalk  along  the  deck  till 
you  reach  the  end,  and  there  go  round  and  round 
the  band  in  a  circle  like  a  horse  tethered  to  an  iron 
pin,  or  else  sit  down  and  admire  those  who  do  go 
round  and  round.  No  one  looks  back  at  the 
gradually  extending  beach  and  the  fine  curve  of 
the  shore.  No  one  lingers  where  the  surf  breaks 
—  immediately  above  it  —  listening  to  the  re- 
morseful sigh  of  the  dying  wave  as  it  sobs  back  to 
the  sea.  There,  looking  downwards,  the  white 
edge  of  the  surf  recedes  in  hollow  crescents,  curve 
after  curve  for  a  mile  or  more,  one  succeeding 
before  the  first  can  disappear  and  be  replaced  by  a 
fresh  wave.  A  faint  mistiness  hangs  above  the 
beach  at  some  distance,  formed  of  the  salt  particles 
dashed  into  the  air  and  suspended.  At  night,  if 
the  tide  chances  to  be  up,  the  white  surf  rushing 
in  and  returning  immediately  beneath  has  a  strange 
—  179  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

effect,  especially  in  its  pitiless  regularity.  If  one 
wave  seems  to  break  a  little  higher  it  is  only  in 
appearance,  and  because  you  have  not  watched 
long  enough.  Inr<a  certain  number  of  times  an- 
other will  break  there  again ;  presently  one  will 
encroach  the  merest  trifle;  after  a  while  another 
encroaches  again,  and  the  apparent  irregularity  is 
really  sternly  regular.  The  free  wave  has  no 
liberty,  —  it  does  not  act  for  itself,  —  no  real  gener- 
ous wildness.  "  Thus  far  and  no  farther,"  is  not 
a  merciful  saying.  Cold  and  dread  and  piti- 
less, the  wave  claims  its  due  —  it  stretches  its 
arms  to  the  fullest  length,  and  does  not  pause  or 
hearken  to  the  desire  of  any  human  heart.  Hope- 
less to  appeal  to  is  the  unseen  force  that  sends  the 
white  surge  underneath  to  darken  the  pebbles  to  a 
certain  line.  The  wetted  pebbles  are  darker  than 
the  dry ;  even  in  the  dusk  they  are  easily  distin- 
guished. Something  merciless,  is  there  not,  in  this 
conjunction  of  restriction  and  impetus  ?  Some- 
thing outside  human  hope  and  thought  —  indifferent 
—  cold? 

Considering  in  this  way,  I  wandered  about  fifty 
yards  along  the  pier,  and  sat  down  in  an  abstracted 
way  on  the  seat  on  the  right  side.  Beneath,  the 
clear  green  sea  rolled  in  crestless  waves  towards 
the  shore  —  they  were  moving  "without  the  ani- 
mation of  the  wind,"  which  had  deserted  them  two 
—  180  — 


THE    BATHING    SEASON 

days  ago,  and  a  hundred  miles  out  at  sea.  Slower 
and  slower,  with  an  indolent  undulation,  rising  and 
sinking  of  mere  weight  and  devoid  of  impetus,  the 
waves  passed  on,  scarcely  seeming  to  break  the 
smoothness  of  the  surface.  At  a  little  distance  it 
seemed  level ;  yet  the  boats  every  now  and  then 
sank  deeply  into  the  trough,  and  even  a  large 
fishing-smack  rolled  heavily.  For  it  is  the  nature 
of  a  groundswell  to  be  exceedingly  deceptive. 
Sometimes  the  waves  are  so  far  apart  that  the  sea 
actually  is  level  —  smooth  as  the  surface  of  a 
polished  dining-table  —  till  presently  there  appears 
a  darker  line  slowly  approaching,  and  a  wave  of 
considerable  size  comes  in,' advancing  exactly  like 
the  crease  in  the  cloth  which  the  housemaid  spreads 
on  the  table  —  the  air  rolling  along  underneath  it 
forms  a  linen  imitation  of  the  groundswell.  These 
unexpected  rollers  are  capital  at  upsetting  boats 
just  touching  the  beach ;  the  boat  is  broadside  on 
and  the  occupants  in  the  water  in  a  second.  To- 
day the  groundswell  was  more  active,  the  waves 
closer  together,  not  having  had  time  to  forget  the 
force  of  the  extinct  gale.  Yet  the  sea  looked  calm 
as  a  millpond — just  the  morning  for  a  bath. 

Along  the  yellow  line  where  sand  and   pebbles 

meet  there  stood  a  gallant  band,  in  gay  uniforms, 

facing  the  water.     Like  the  imperial  legions  who 

were  ordered  to  charge  the  ocean,  and  gather  the 

— 181  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


shells  as  spoils  of  war,  the  cohorts  gleaming  in 
purple  and  gold  extended  their  front  rank  —  their 
fighting  line  one  to  a  yard  —  along  the  strand.  Some 
tall  and  stately  ;  some  tall  and  slender  ;  some  well 
developed  and  firm  on  their  limbs  ;  some  gentle  in 
attitude,  even  in  their  war  dress;  some  defiant; 
perhaps  forty  or  fifty,  perhaps  more,  ladies  ;  a 
splendid  display  of  womanhood  in  the  bright  sun- 
light. Blue  dresses,  pink  dresses,  purple  dresses, 
trimmings  of  every  colour;  a  gallant  show.  The 
eye  had  but  just  time  to  receive  these  impressions  as 
it  were  with  a  blow  of  the  camera  —  instantaneous 
photography  —  when,  boom  !  the  groundswell  was 
on  them,  and,  heavens,  what  a  change  !  They 
disappeared.  An  arm  projected  here,  possibly  a 
foot  yonder,  tresses  floated  on  the  surface  like  sea- 
weed, but  bodily  they  were  gone.  The  whole 
rank  from  end  to  end  was  overthrown  —  more  than 
that,  overwhelmed,  buried,  interred  in  water  like 
Pharaoh's  army  in  the  Red  Sea.  Crush  !  It  had 
come  on  them  like  a  mountain.  The  wave  so 
clear,  so  beautifully  coloured,  so  cool  and  refreshing, 
had  struck  their  delicate  bodies  with  the  force  of  a 
ton  weight.  Crestless  and  smooth  to  look  at,  in 
reality  that  treacherous  roller  weighed  at  least  a  ton 
to  a  yard. 

Down  went  each  fair  bather  as  if  hit  with  shot 
from  a  Catling  gun.      Down  she  went,  frantically, 
—  182  — 


g=^g      THE    BATHING    SEASON 

and  vainly  grasping  at  a  useless  rope;  down  with 
water  driven  into  her  nostrils,  with  a  fragment,  a  tiny 
blade,  of  seaweed  forced  into  her  throat,  choking 
her;  crush  on  the  hard  pebbles,  no  feather  bed,  with 
the  pressure  of  a  ton  of  water  overhead,  and  the 
strange  rushing  roar  it  makes  in  the  ears.  Down 
she  went,  and  at  the  same  time  was  dragged  head 
foremost,  sideways,  anyhow,  but  dragged — ground 
along  on  the  bitter  pebbles  some  yards  higher  up 
the  beach,  each  pebble  leaving  its  own  particular 
bruise,  and  the  suspended  sand  filling  the  eyes. 
Then  the  wave  left  her,  and  she  awoke  from  the 
watery  nightmare  to  the  bright  sunlight,  and  the 
hissing  foam  as  it  subsided,  prone  at  full  length, 
high  and  dry  like  a  stranded  wreck.  Perhaps  her 
head  had  tapped  the  wheel  of  the  machine  in  a 
friendly  way — a  sort  of  genial  battering  ram.  The 
defeat  was  a  perfect  rout ;  yet  they  recovered  posi- 
tion immediately.  I  fancy  I  did  see  one  slip  limply 
to  cover;  but  the  main  body  rose  manfully,  and 
picked  their  way  with  delicate  feet  on  the  hard, 
hard  stones  back  again  to  the  water,  again  to  meet 
their  inevitable  fate. 

The  white  ankles  of  the  blonde  gleaming  in  the 
sunshine  were  distinguishable,  even  at  that  distance, 
from  the  flesh  tint  of  the  brunette  beside  her,  and 
these  again  from  the  swarthiness  of  still  darker 
ankles,  which  did  not  gleam,  but  had  a  subdued 
-183- 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

colour  like  dead  gold.  The  foam  of  a  lesser  wave 
ran  up  and  touched  their  feet  submissively.  Three 
young  girls  in  pink  clustered  together;  one  crouched 
with  her  back  to  the  sea  and  glanced  over  her  timo- 
rous shoulder.  Another  lesser  wave  ran  up  and 
left  a  fringe  of  foam  before  them.  I  looked  for  a 
moment  out  to  sea  and  saw  the  smack  roll  heavily, 
the  big  wave  was  coming.  By  now  the  bathers  had 
gathered  confidence,  and  stepped,  a  little  way  at  a 
time,  closer  and  closer  down  to  the  water.  Some 
even  stood  where  each  lesser  wave  rose  to  their 
knees.  Suddenly  a  few  leant  forwards,  pulling 
their  ropes  taut,  and  others  turned  sideways ;  these 
were  the  more  experienced  or  observant.  Boom  ! 
The  big  roller  broke  near  the  pier  and  then  ran 
along  the  shore ;  it  did  not  strike  the  whole  length 
at  once,  it  came  in  aslant  and  rushed  sideways. 
The  three  in  pink  went  first  —  they  were  not  far 
enough  from  their  machine  to  receive  its  full  force, 
it  barely  reached  to  the  waist,  and  really  I  think  it 
was  worse  for  them.  They  were  lifted  off  their 
feet  and  shot  forward  with  their  heads  under  water; 
one  appeared  to  be  under  the  two  others,  a  confused 
mass  of  pink.  Their  white  feet  emerged  behind  the 
roller,  and  as  it  sank  it  drew  them  back,  grinding 
them  over  the  pebbles  :  every  one  knows  how 
pebbles  grate  and  grind  their  teeth  as  a  wave  sub- 
sides. Left  lying  on  their  faces,  I  guessed  from 
-184- 


THE    BATHING     SEASON 

their  attitudes  that  they  had  dug  their  finger-nails 
into  the  pebbles  in  an  effort  to  seize  something  that 
would  hold.  Somehow  they  got  on  their  knees  and 
crept  up  the  slope  of  the  beach.  Beyond  these  three 
some  had  been  standing  about  up  to  their  knees; 
these  were  simply  buried  as  before —  quite  concealed 
and  thrown  like  beams  of  timber,  head  first,  feet 
first,  high  up  on  shore.  Group  after  group  went 
down  as  the  roller  reached  them,  and  the  sea  was 
dyed  for  a  minute  with  blue  dresses,  purple  dresses, 
pink  dresses  ;  they  coloured  the  wave  which  sub- 
merged them.  From  end  to  end  the  whole  rank 
was  again  overwhelmed,  nor  did  any  position  prove 
of  advantage  ;  those  who  sprang  up  as  the  wave 
came  were  simply  turned  over  and  carried  on  their 
backs,  those  who  tried  to  dive  under  were  swept 
back  by  the  tremendous  under-rush.  Sitting  on  the 
beach,  lying  at  full  length,  on  hands  and  knees,  lying 
on  this  side  or  that,  doubled  up  —  there  they  were, 
as  the  roller  receded,  in  every  disconsolate  attitude 
imaginable;  the  curtain  rose  and  disclosed  the  stage 
in  disorder.  Again  I  thought  I  saw  one  or  two 
limp  to  their  machines,  but  the  main  body  adjusted 
themselves  and  faced  the  sea. 

Was  there  ever  such  courage?    National  untaught 
courage  —  inbred,  and  not  built  of  gradual  instruc- 
tion as  it  were  in  hardihood.      Yet  some  people 
hesitate  to  give  women  the  franchise  !  actually,  a 
-185- 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


miserable  privilege  which  any  poor  fool  of  a  man 
may  exercise. 

I  was  philosophising  admirably  in  this  strain  when 
first  a  shadow  cam$  and  then  the  substance,  that  is, 
a  gentleman  sat  down  by  me  and  wished  me  good 
morning,  in  a  slightly  different  accent  to  that  we  usu- 
ally hear.  I  looked  wistfully  at  the  immense  length 
of  empty  seats ;  on  both  sides  of  the  pier  for  two 
hundred  yards  or  more  there  extended  an  endless 
empty  seat.  Why  could  not  he  have  chosen  a  spot 
to  himself?  Why  must  he  place  himself  just  here, 
so  close  as  to  touch  me?  Four  hundred  yards  of 
vacant  seats,  and  he  could  not  find  room  for  himself. 

It  is  a  remarkable  fact  in  natural  history  that 
one's  elbow  is  sure  to  be  jogged.  It  does  not 
matter  what  you  do ;  suppose  you  paint  in  the  most 
secluded  spot,  and  insert  yourself,  moreover,  in  the 
most  inconspicuous  part  of  that  spot,  some  vacant 
physiognomy  is  certain  to  intrude,  glaring  at  you 
with  glassy  eye.  Suppose  you  do  nothing  (like 
myself),  no  matter  where  you  do  it  some  inane 
humanity  obtrudes  itself.  I  took  out  my  note-book 
once  in  a  great  open  space  at  the  Tower  of  London, 
a  sort  of  court  or  place  of  arms,  quite  open  and  a 
gunshot  across ;  there  was  no  one  in  sight,  and  if 
there  had  been  half  a  regiment  they  could  have 
passed  (and  would  have  passed)  without  interference. 
I  had  scarcely  written  three  lines  when  the  pencil 


THE    BATHING     SEASON 

flew  up  the  page,  some  hulking  lout  having  brushed 
against  me.  He  could  not  find  room  for  himself. 
A  hundred  yards  of  width  was  not  room  enough  for 
him  to  go  by.  He  meant  no  harm,;  it  did  not  occur 
to  him  that  he  could  be  otherwise  than  welcome. 
He  was  the  sort  of  man  who  calmly  sleeps  on  your 
shoulder  in  a  train,  and  merely  replaces  his  head 
if  you  wake  him  twenty  times.  The  very  same  thing 
has  happened  to  me  in  the  parks,  and  in  country 
fields;  particularly  it  happens  at  the  British  Museum 
and  the  picture  galleries,  there  is  room  sufficient  in 
all  conscience ;  but  if  you  try  to  make  a  note  or  a 
rough  memorandum  sketch  you  get  a  jog.  There 
is  a  jogger  everywhere,  just  as  there  is  a  buzzing  fly 
everywhere  in  summer.  The  jogger  travels,  too. 

One  day,  while  studying  in  the  Louvre,  I  am 
certain  three  or  four  hundred  French  people  went 
by  me,  mostly  provincials  I  fancy,  countrv-folk,  in 
short,  from  their  dress,  which  was  not  Parisian,  and 
their  accent,  which  was  not  of  the  Boulevards. 
Of  all  these  not  one  interfered  with  me;  they  did 
not  approach  within  four  or  five  feet.  How  grate- 
ful I  felt  towards  them  !  One  man  and  his  sweet- 
heart, a  fine  Southern  girl  with  dark  eyes  and 
sun-browned  cheeks,  sat  down  near  me  on  one 
of  the  scanty  seats  provided.  The  man  put  his 
umbrella  and  his  hat  on  the  seat  beside  him. 
What  could  be  more  natural  ?  No  one  else  was 
-187- 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


there,  and  there  was  room  for  three  more  couples. 
Instantly  an  official  —  an  authority  !  —  stepped 
hastily  forward  from  the  shadow  of  some  sculpture 
(beasts  of  prey  abide  in  darkness),  snatched  up  the 
umbrella  and  hat,  and  rudely  dashed  them  on  the 
floor.  In  a  flow  of  speech  he  explained  that  noth- 
ing must  be  placed  on  the  seats.  The  man,  who 
had  his  handkerchief  in  his  hand,  quietly  dropped  it 
into  his  hat  on  the  floor  and  replied  nothing.  This 
was  an  official  "jogger."  I  felt  indignant  to  see 
and  hear  people  treated  in  this  rough  manner  ;  but 
the  provincial  was  used  to  the  jogger  system  and 
heeded  it  not.  My  own  jogger  was  coming. 
Three  to  four  hundred  country-folk  had  gone  by 
gently  and  in  a  gentlemanly  way.  Then  came  an 
English  gentleman,  middle-aged,  florid,  not  much 
tinctured  with  art  or  letters,  but  garnished  with 
huge  gold  watchchain  and  with  wealth  as  it  were 
bulging  out  of  his  waistcoat  pocket.  This  gentle- 
man positively  walked  into  me,  pushed  me  — 
literally  pushed  me  aside  and  took  my  place,  a  place 
valuable  to  me  at  that  moment  for  one  special 
aspect,  and  having  shoved  me  aside,  gazed  about 
him  through  his  eyeglass,  I  suppose  to  discover 
what  it  was  interested  me.  He  was  a  genuine, 
thoroughbred  jogger.  The  vast  galleries  of  the 
Louvre  had  not  room  enough  for  him.  He  was 
one  of  the  most  successful  joggers  in  the  world,  I 


THE     BATHING     SEASON 

feel  sure ;  any  family  might  be  proud  of  him. 
While  I  am  thus  digressing,  the  bathers  have  gone 
over  thrice. 

The  individual  who  had  sat  himself  down  by  me 
produced  a  little  box  and  offered  me  a  lozenge.  I 
did  not  accept  it ;  he  took  one  himself  in  token 
that  they  were  harmless.  Then  he  took  a  second, 
and  a  third,  and  began  to  tell  me  of  their  virtues ; 
they  cured  this  and  they  alleviated  that,  they  were 
the  greatest  discovery  of  the  age ;  this  universal 
lozenge  was  health  in  the  waistcoat  pocket,  a 
medicine-chest  between  finger  and  thumb ;  the 
secret  had  been  extracted  at  last,  and  nature  had 
given  up  the  ghost  as  it  were  of  her  hidden  physic. 
His  eloquence  conjured  up  in  my  mind  a  vision  of 
the  rocks  beside  the  Hudson  river  papered  over 
with  acres  of  advertising  posters.  But  no ;  by  his 
further  conversation  I  found  that  I  had  mentally 
slandered  him ;  he  was  not  a  proprietor  of  patent 
medicine ;  he  was  a  man  of  education  and  private 
means ;  he  belonged  to  a  much  higher  profession, 
in  fact  he  was  a  "jogger"  travelling  about  from 
place  to  place  —  "  globe-trotting  "  from  capital  city 
to  watering-place  —  all  over  the  world  in  the  exer- 
cise of  his  function.  I  had  wondered  if  his  accent 
was  American  (petroleum-American),  or  German, 
or  Italian,  or  Russian,  or  what.  Now  I  wondered 
no  longer,  for  the  jogger  is  cosmopolitan.  When 
-189- 


g^-^sra^gg      THE    OPEN    AIR 

he  had  exhausted  his  lozenge  he  told  me  how  many 
times  the  screw  of  the  steamer  revolved  while 
carrying  him  across  the  Pacific  from  Yokohama  to 
San  Francisco.  \  nearly  suggested  that  it  was 
about  equal  to  the  number  of  times  his  tongue  had 
vibrated  in  the  last  ten  minutes.  The  bathers 
went  over  twice  more.  I  was  anxious  to  take 
note  of  their  bravery,  and  turned  aside,  leaning  over 
the  iron  back  of  the  seat.  He  went  on  just  the 
same  j  a  hint  was  no  more  to  him  than  a  feather 
bed  to  an  ironclad. 

My  rigid  silence  was  of  no  avail ;  so  long  as  my 
ears  were  open  he  did  not  care.  He  was  a  very 
energetic  jogger.  However,  it  occurred  to  me  to 
try  another  plan  :  I  turned  towards  him  (he  would 
much  rather  have  had  my  back)  and  began  to  talk 
in  the  most  strident  tones  I  could  command.  I 
pointed  out  to  him  that  the  pier  was  decked  like  a 
vessel,  that  the  cliffs  were  white,  that  a  lady  pass- 
ing had  a  dark  blue  dress  on,  which  did  not  suit 
with  the  green  sea,  not  because  it  was  blue,  but  be- 
cause it  was  the  wrong  tint  of  blue;  I  informed 
him  that  the  Pavilion  was  once  the  residence  of 
royalty,  and  similar  novelties ;  all  in  a  string  with- 
out a  semicolon.  His  eyes  opened  ;  he  fumbled 
with  his  lozenge-box,  said  "  Good  morning,"  and 
went  on  up  the  pier.  I  watched  him  go  —  Eng- 
lish-Americano-Germano-Franco-Prussian-Russian- 
—  190  — 


THE    BATHING     SEASON 

Chinese -New  Zealander  that  he  was.  But  he 
was  not  a  man  of  genius;  you  could  choke  him 
off  by  talking.  Still  he  had  effectually  jogged  me 
and  spoiled  my  contemplative  enjoyment  of  the 
bathers'  courage  j  upon  the  whole  I  thought  I 
would  go  down  on  the  beach  now  and  see  them  a 
little  closer.  The  truth  is,  I  suppose,  that  it  is 
people  like  myself  who  are  in  the  wrong,  or  are  in 
the  way.  What  business  had  I  to  make  a  note  in 
the  Tower  yard,  or  study  in  the  Louvre  ?  what 
business  have  I  to  think,  or  indulge  myself  in  an 
idea?  What  business  has  any  man  to  paint,  or 
sketch,  or  do  anything  of  the  sort  ?  I  suppose 
the  joggers  are  in  the  right. 

Dawdling  down  Whitehall  one  day  a  jogger 
nailed  me — they  come  to  me  like  flies  to  honey  — 
and  got  me  to  look  at  his  pamphlet.  He  went 
about,  he  said,  all  his  time  distributing  them  as  a 
duty  for  the  safety  of  the  nation.  The  pamphlet 
was  printed  in  the  smallest  type,  and  consisted  of 
extracts  from  various  prophetical  authors,  pointing 
out  the  enormity  of  the  Babylonian  Woman,  or 
the  City  of  Scarlet,  or  some  such  thing ;  the  gist 
being  the  bitterest  —  almost  scurrilous — attack  on 
the  Church  of  Rome.  The  jogger  told  me,  with 
tears  of  pride  in  his  eyes  and  a  glorified  counte- 
nance, that  only  a  few  days  before,  in  the  waiting- 
room  of  a  railway  station,  he  had  the  pleasure  to 
—  191  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

present  his  pamphlet  to  Cardinal  Manning.     And 
the  Cardinal  bowed  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

Just  as  everybody  walks  on  the  sunny  side  of 
Regent-street,  so,%there  are  certain  spots  on  the 
beach  where  people  crowd  together.  This  is  one 
of  them ;  just  west  of  the  West  Pier  there  is  a 
fair  between  eleven  and  one  every  bright  morn- 
ing. Everybody  goes  because  everybody  else  does. 
Mamma  goes  down  to  bathe  with  her  daughters 
and  the  little  ones  ;  they  take  two  machines  at 
least ;  the  pater  comes  to  smoke  his  cigar ;  the 
young  fellows  of  the  family  party  come  to  look  at 
"  the  women,"  as  they  irreverently  speak  of  the  sex. 
So  the  story  runs  on  ad  infimtum,  down  to  the  shoe- 
less ones  that  turn  up  everywhere.  Every  seat  is 
occupied  ;  the  boats  and  small  yachts  are  rilled  ; 
some  of  the  children  pour  pebbles  into  the  boats, 
some  carefully  throw  them  out ;  wooden  spades  are 
busy ;  sometimes  they  knock  each  other  on  the 
head  with  them,  sometimes  they  empty  pails  of 
sea-water  on  a  sister's  frock.  There  is  a  squeal- 
ing, squalling,  screaming,  shouting,  singing,  bawl- 
ing, howling,  whistling,  tin-trumpeting,  and  every 
luxury  of  noise.  Two  or  three  bands  work  away  ; 
niggers  clatter  their  bones  ;  a  conjurer  in  red  throws 
his  heels  in  the  air ;  several  harps  strum  merrily 
different  strains ;  fruit-sellers  push  baskets  into 
folks'  faces;  sellers  of  wretched  needlework  and 
_,9a_ 


THE    BATHING    SEASON 

singular  baskets  coated  with  shells  thrust  their  rub- 
bish into  people's  laps.  These  shell  baskets  date  from 
George  IV.  The  gingerbeer  men  and  the  newsboys 
cease  not  from  troubling.  Such  a  volume  of  uproar, 
such  a  complete  organ  of  discord  —  I  mean  a  whole 
organful  —  cannot  be  found  anywhere  else  on  the 
face  of  the  earth  in  so  comparatively  small  a  space. 
It  is  a  sort  of  triangular  plot  of  beach  crammed  with 
everything  that  ordinarily  annoys  the  ears  and  offends 
the  sight. 

Yet  you  hear  nothing  and  see  nothing;  it  is 
perfectly  comfortable,  perfectly  jolly  and  exhilarat- 
ing, a  preferable  spot  to  any  other.  A  sparkle  of 
sunshine  on  the  breakers,  a  dazzling  gleam  from 
the  white  foam,  a  warm  sweet  air,  light  and  bright- 
ness and  champagniness  ;  altogether  lovely.  The 
way  in  which  people  lie  about  on  the  beach,  their 
legs  this  way,  and  their  arms  that,  their  hats  over 
their  eyes,  their  utter  give-themselves-up  expression 
of  attitude  is  enough  in  itself  to  make  a  reasonable 
being  contented.  Nobody  cares  for  anybody  ;  they 
drowned  Mrs.  Grundy  long  ago.  The  ancient  phi- 
losopher (who  had  a  mind  to  eat  a  fig)  held  that  a 
nail  driven  into  wood  could  only  support  a  certain 
weight.  After  that  weight  was  exceeded  either  the 
wood  must  break  or  the  nail  come  out.  Yonder  is 
a  wooden  seat  put  together  with  nails  —  a  flimsy 
contrivance,  which  defies  all  rules  of  gravity  and 
13  _  —193  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR      SEE! 


adhesion.  One  leg  leans  one  way,  the  other  in  the 
opposite  direction  ;  very  lame  legs  indeed.  Care- 
ful folk  would  warn  you  not  to  sit  on  it  lest  it 
should  come  to  pieces.  The  music,  I  suppose, 
charms  it,  for  it  holds  together  in  the  most  mar- 
vellous manner.  Four  people  are  sitting  on  it, 
four  big  ones,  middle-aged,  careful  people;  every 
moment  the  legs  gape  wide  apart,  the  structure 
visibly  stretches  and  yields  and  sinks  in  the  peb- 
bles, yet  it  does  not  come  down.  The  stoutest  of 
all  sits  actually  over  the  lame  legs,  reading  his 
paper  quite  oblivious  of  the  odd  angle  his  plump 
person  makes,  quite  unconscious  of  the  threatened 
crack — crash  !  It  does  not  happen.  A  sort  of 
magnetism  sticks  it  together ;  it  is  in  the  air ; 
it  makes  things  go  right  that  ought  to  go  wrong. 
Awfully  naughty  place  ;  no  sort  of  idea  of  right- 
ness  here.  Humming  and  strumming,  and  singing 
and  smoking,  splashing,  and  sparkling;  a  buzz  of 
voices  and  booming  of  sea  !  If  they  could  only  be 
happy  like  this  always  ! 

Mamma  has  a  tremendous  fight  over  the  bathing- 
dresses,  her  own,  of  course  ;  the  bathing  woman 
cannot  find  them,  and  denies  that  she  had  them, 
and  by-and-by,  after  half  an  hour's  exploration, 
finds  them  all  right,  and  claims  commendation  for 
having  put  them  away  so  safely.  Then  there  is 
the  battle  for  a  machine.  The  nurse  has  been 
—  194— 


THE    BATHING     SEASON 

keeping  guard  on  the  steps,  to  seize  it  the  instant 
the  occupant  comes  out.  At  last  they  get  it,  and 
the  wonder  is  how  they  pack  themselves  in  it. 
Boom  !  The  bathers  have  gone  over,  again,  I 
know.  The  rope  stretches  as  the  men  at  the  cap- 
stan go  round,  and  heavC  up  the  machines  one  by 
one  before  the  devouring  tide. 

As  it  is  not  at  all  rude,  but  the  proper  thing  to 
do,  I  thought  I  would  venture  a  little  nearer  (not 
too  obtrusively  near)  and  see  closer  at  hand  how 
brave  womanhood  faced  the  rollers.  There  was  a 
young  girl  lying  at  full  length  at  the  edge  of  the 
foam.  She  reclined  parallel  to  the  beach,  not  with 
her  feet  towards  the  sea,  but  so  that  it  came  to  her 
side.  She  was  clad  in  some  material  of  a  gauzy 
and  yet  opaque  texture,  permitting  the  full  outline 
and  the  least  movement  to  be  seen.  The  colour  I 
do  not  exactly  know  how  to  name ;  they  could  tell 
you  at  the  Magasin  du  Louvre,  where  men  under- 
stand the  hues  of  garments  as  well  as  women.  I 
presume  it  was  one  of  the  many  tints  that  are  called 
at  large  "  creamy."  It  suited  her  perfectly.  Her 
complexion  was  in  the  faintest  degree  swarthy,  and 
yet  not  in  the  least  like  what  a  lady  would  associ- 
ate with  that  word.  The  difficulty  in  describing  a 
colour  is  that  different  people  take  different  views 
of  the  terms  employed;  ladies  have  one  scale  founded 
a  good  deal  on  dress,  men  another,  and  painters  have 
—  195  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


a  special  (and  accurate)  gamut  which  they  use  in  the 
studio.  This  was  a  clear  swarthiness  — a  translu- 
cent swarthiness —  clear  as  the  most  delicate  white. 
There  was  something  in  the  hue  of  her  neck  as  freely 
shown  by  the  loose  bathing-dress,  of  her  bare  arms 
and  feet,  somewhat  recalling  to  mind  the  kind  of 
beauty  attributed  to  the  Queen  of  Egypt.  But  it 
was  more  delicate.  Her  form  was  almost  fully  de- 
veloped, more  so  than  usual  at  her  age.  Again  and 
again  the  foam  rushed  up  deep  enough  to  cover  her 
limbs,  but  not  sufficiently  so  to  hide  her  chest,  as 
she  was  partly  raised  on  one  arm.  Washed  thus 
with  the  purest  whiteness  of  the  sparkling  foam, 
her  beauty  gathered  increase  from  the  touch  of  the 
sea.  She  swayed  slightly  as  the  water  reached  her, 
she  was  luxuriously  rocked  to  and  fro.  The  waves 
toyed  with  her;  they  came  and  retired,  happy  in 
her  presence;  the  breeze  and  the  sunshine  were 
there. 

Standing  somewhat  back,  the  machines  hid  the 
waves  from  me  till  they  reached  the  shore,  so  that 
I  did  not  observe  the  heavy  roller  till  it  came  and 
broke.  A  ton  of  water  fell  on  her,  crush !  The  edge 
of  the  wave  curled  and  dropped  over  her,  the  arch 
bowed  itself  above  her,  the  keystone  of  the  wave 
fell  in.  She  was  under  the  surge  while  it  rushed  up 
and  while  it  rushed  back  ;  it  carried  her  up  to  the 
steps  of  the  machine  and  back  again  to  her  origi- 
— 196  — 


THE    BATHING     SEASON 

nal  position.  When  it  subsided  she  simply  shook 
her  head,  raised  herself  on  one  arm,  and  adjusted 
herself  parallel  to  the  beach  as  before. 

Let  any  one  try  this,  let  any  one  lie  for  a  few 
minutes  just  where  the  surge  bursts,  and  he  will 
understand  what  it  means.  Men  go  out  to  the 
length  of  their  ropes  —  past  and  outside  the  line 
of  the  breakers,  or  they  swim  still  farther  out 
and  ride  at  ease  where  the  wave,  however  large, 
merely  lifts  them  pleasantly  as  it  rolls  under.  But 
the  smashing  force  of  the  wave  is  where  it  curls 
and  breaks,  and  it  is  there  that  the  ladies  wait 
for  it.  It  is  these  breakers  in  a  gale  that  tear 
to  pieces  and  destroy  the  best-built  ships  once 
they  touch  the  shore,  scattering  their  timbers  as 
the  wind  scatters  leaves.  The  courage  and  the  en- 
durance women  must  possess  to  face  a  groundswell 
like  this  ! 

All  the  year  they  live  in  luxury  and  ease,  and 
are  shielded  from  everything  that  could  hurt.  A 
bruise  —  a  lady  to  receive  a  bruise ;  it  is  not  to  be 
thought  of!  If  a  ruffian  struck  a  lady  in  Hyde 
Park  the  world  would  rise  from  its  armchair  in 
a  fury  of  indignation.  These  waves  and  pebbles 
bruise  them  as  they  list.  They  do  not  even  flinch. 
There  must,  then,  be  a  natural  power  of  endurance 
in  them. 

It  is  unnecessary,  and  yet  I  was  proud  to  see 
—  197  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

it.  An  English  lady  could  do  it ;  but  could  any 
other  ?  —  unless,  indeed,  an  American  of  English 
descent.  Still,  it  is  a  barbarous  thing,  for  bathing 
could  be  easily  rendered  pleasant.  The  cruel  roller 
receded,  the  soft  breeze  blew,  the  sunshine  sparkled, 
the  gleaming  foam  rushed  up  and  gently  rocked  her. 
The  Infanta  Cleopatra  lifted  her  arm  gleaming  wet 
with  spray,  and  extended  it  indolently;  the  sun  had 
only  given  her  a  more  seductive  loveliness.  How 
much  more  enjoyable  the  sea  and  breeze  and  sun- 
shine when  one  is  gazing  at  something  so  beauti- 
ful. That  arm,  rounded  and  soft  — 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,  but  your  immortal  soul  "  —  a 
hand  was  placed  on  my  elbow.  I  turned,  and  saw 
a  beaming  face;  a  young  lady,  elegantly  dressed, 
placed  a  fly-sheet  of  good  intentions  in  my  fingers. 
The  fair  jogger  beamed  yet  more  sweetly  as  I 
took  it,  and  went  on  among  the  crowd.  When 
I  looked  back  the  Infanta  Cleopatra  had  ascended 
into  her  machine.  I  had  lost  the  last  few  mo- 
ments of  loveliness. 


-198- 


UNDER   THE   ACORNS 


X^S^|OMING  along  a  woodland  lane,  a 
if  **  small  round  and  glittering  object  in 

the    brushwood    caught   my   attention. 

The  ground  was  but  just  hidden  in 
that  part  of  the  wood  with  a  thin  growth  of 
brambles,  low,  and  more  like  creepers  than  any- 
thing else.  These  scarcely  hid  the  surface,  which 
was  brown  with  the  remnants  of  oak-leaves ;  there 
seemed  so  little  cover,  indeed,  that  a  mouse  might 
have  been  seen.  But  at  that  spot  some  great  spurge- 
plants  hung  this  way  and  that,  leaning  aside,  as  if 
the  stems  were  too  weak  to  uphold  the  heads  of 
dark-green  leaves.  Thin  grasses,  perfectly  white, 
bleached  by  sun  and  dew,  stood  in  a  bunch  by 
the  spurge ;  their  seeds  had  fallen,  the  last  dregs 
of  sap  had  dried  within  them,  there  was  nothing 
left  but  the  bare  stalks.  A  creeper  of  bramble 
fenced  round  one  side  of  the  spurge  and  white 
grass  bunch,  and  brown  leaves  were  visible  on 
the  surface  of  the  ground  through  the  interstices 
of  the  spray.  It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  little 
thicket  that  a  small,  dark,  and  glittering  object 


S>E3=S3i=3K      THE    OPEN    AIR     sE 


caught  my  attention.  I  knew  it  was  the  eye  of 
some  creature  at  once,  but,  supposing  it  nothing 
more  than  a  young  rabbit,  was  passing  on,  think- 
ing of  other  matters,  when  it  occurred  to  me,  be- 
fore I  could  finish  the  step  I  had  taken,  so  quick 
is  thought,  that  the  eye  was  not  large  enough  to 
be  that  of  a  rabbit.  I  stopped  ;  the  black  glitter- 
ing eye  had  gone  —  the  creature  had  lowered  its 
neck,  but  immediately  noticing  that  I  was  look- 
ing in  that  direction,  it  cautiously  raised  itself  a 
little,  and  I  saw  at  once  that  the  eye  was  the  eye 
of  a  bird.  This  I  knew  first  by  its  size,  and  next 
by  its  position  in  relation  to  the  head,  which  was 
invisible  —  for  had  it  been  a  rabbit  or  hare,  its  ears 
would  have  projected.  The  moment  after,  the  eye 
itself  confirmed  this  —  the  nictitating  membrane 
was  rapidly  drawn  over  it,  and  as  rapidly  removed. 
This  membrane  is  the  distinguishing  mark  of  a 
bird's  eye.  But  what  bird  ?  Although  I  was 
within  two  yards,  I  could  not  even  see  its  head, 
nothing  but  the  glittering  eyeball,  on  which  the 
light  of  the  sun  glinted.  The  sunbeams  came 
over  my  shoulder  straight  into  the  bird's  face. 

Without  moving  —  which  I  did  not  wish  to  do, 
as  it  would  disturb  the  bird  —  I  could  not  see  its 
plumage  ;  the  bramble  spray  in  front,  the  spurge 
behind,  and  the  bleached  grasses  at  the  side,  per- 
fectly concealed  it.  Only  two  birds  I  considered 


—  200  — 


UNDER    THE     ACORNS 

would  be  likely  to  squat  and  remain  quiescent  like 
this  —  partridge  or  pheasant;  but  I  could  not  con- 
trive to  view  the  least  portion  of  the  neck.  A 
moment  afterwards  the  eye  came  up  again,  and 
the  bird  slightly  moved  its  head,  when  I  saw  its 
beak,  and  knew  it  was  a  pheasant  immediately. 
I  then  stepped  forward  —  almost  on  the  bird  — 
and  a  young  pheasant  rose,  and  flew  between  the 
tree-trunks  to  a  deep  dry  watercourse,  where  it 
disappeared  under  some  withering  yellow  ferns. 

Of  course  I  could  easily  have  solved  the  prob- 
lem long  before,  merely  by  startling  the  bird ;  but 
what  would  have  been  the  pleasure  of  that  ?  Any 
plough-lad  could  have  forced  the  bird  to  rise,  and 
would  have  recognised  it  as  a  pheasant;  to  me, 
the  pleasure  consisted  in  discovering  it  under  every 
difficulty.  That  was  woodcraft ;  to  kick  the  bird 
up  would  have  been  simply  nothing  at  all.  Now 
I  found  why  I  could  not  see  the  pheasant's  neck 
or  body  ;  it  was  not  really  concealed,  but  shaded 
out  by  the  mingled  hues  of  white  grasses,  the  brown 
leaves  of  the  surface,  and  the  general  grey -brown 
tints.  Now  it  was  gone,  there  was  a  vacant  space 
—  its  plumage  had  filled  up  that  vacant  space  with 
hues  so  similar  that,  at  no  farther  distance  than 
two  yards,  I  did  not  recognise  it  by  colour.  Had 
the  bird  fully  carried  out  its  instinct  of  conceal- 
ment, and  kept  its  head  down  as  well  as  its  body, 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


I  should  have  passed  it.  Nor  should  I  have  seen 
its  head  if  it  had  looked  the  other  way ;  the  eye 
betrayed  its  presence.  The  dark  glittering  eye, 
which  the  sunlight  touched,  caught  my  attention 
instantly.  There  is  nothing  like  an  eye  in  inani- 
mate nature ;  no  flower,  no  speck  on  a  bough,  no 
gleaming  stone  wet  with  dew,  nothing,  indeed,  to 
which  it  can  be  compared.  The  eye  betrayed  it ; 
I  could  not  overlook  an  eye.  Neither  nature  nor 
inherited  experience  had  taught  the  pheasant  to  hide 
its  eye ;  the  bird  not  only  wished  to  conceal  itself, 
but  to  watch  my  motions,  and,  looking  up  from  its 
cover,  was  immediately  observed. 

At  a  turn  of  the  lane  there  was  a  great  heap  of 
oak  "  chumps,"  crooked  logs,  sawn  in  lengths,  and 
piled  together.  They  were  so  crooked,  it  was 
difficult  to  find  a  seat,  till  I  hit  on  one  larger  than 
the  rest.  The  pile  of  "  chunks  "  rose  half-way  up 
the  stem  of  an  oak  tree,  and  formed  a  wall  of  wood 
at  my  back ;  the  oak  boughs  reached  over  and 
made  a  pleasant  shade.  The  sun  was  warm  enough 
to  render  resting  in  the  open  air  delicious,  the 
wind  cool  enough  to  prevent  the  heat  becoming 
too  great ;  the  pile  of  timber  kept  off  the  draught, 
so  that  I  could  stay  and  listen  to  the  gentle  "  hush, 
rush  "  of  the  breeze  in  the  oak  above  me  ;  "  hush  " 
as  it  came  slowly,  "  rush  "  as  it  came  fast,  and  a 
low  undertone  as  it  nearly  ceased.  So  thick  were 


UNDER    THE     ACORNS 

the  haws  on  a  bush  of  thorn  opposite,  that  they 
tinted  the  hedge  a  red  colour  among  the  yellowing 
hawthorn-leaves.  To  this  red  hue  the  blackberries 
that  were  not  ripe,  the  thick  dry  red  sorrel  stalks, 
a  bright  canker  on  a  brier  almost  as  bright  as  a 
rose,  added  their  colours.  Already  the  foliage  of 
the  bushes  had  been  thinned,  and  it  was  possible  to 
see  through  the  upper  parts  of  the  boughs.  The 
sunlight,  therefore,  not  only  touched  their  outer 
surfaces,  but  passed  through  and  lit  up  the  branches 
within,  and  the  wild-fruit  upon  them.  Though 
the  sky  was  clear  and  blue  between  the  clouds, 
that  is,  without  mist  or  haze,  the  sunbeams  were 
coloured  the  faintest  yellow,  as  they  always  are  on 
a  ripe  autumn  day.  This  yellow  shone  back  from 
grass  and  leaves,  from  bough  and  tree-trunk,  and 
seemed  to  stain  the  ground.  It  is  very  pleasant  to 
the  eyes,  a  soft,  delicate  light,  that  gives  another 
beauty  to  the  atmosphere.  Some  roan  cows  were 
wandering  down  the  lane,  feeding  on  the  herbage 
at  the  side ;  their  colour,  too,  was  lit  up  by  the 
peculiar  light,  which  gave  a  singular  softness  to 
the  large  shadows  of  the  trees  upon  the  sward. 
In  a  meadow  by  the  wood  the  oaks  cast  broad 
shadows  on  the  short  velvety  sward,  not  so  sharp 
and  definite  as  those  of  summer,  but  tender,  and, 
as  it  were,  drawn  with  a  loving  hand.  They  were 
large  shadows,  though  it  was  mid-day  —  a  sign 
—  203  — 


«=-=30Esr=3g      THE     OPEN    AIR 

that  the  sun  was  no  longer  at  his  greatest  height, 
but  declining.  In  July  they  would  scarcely  have 
extended  beyond  the  rim  of  the  boughs  ;  the  rays 
would  have  dropped  perpendicularly,  now  they 
slanted.  Pleasant  as  it  was,  there  was  regret  in 
the  thought  that  the  summer  was  going  fast. 
Another  sign  —  the  grass  by  the  gateway,  an  acre 
of  it,  was  brightly  yellow  with  hawkweeds,  and 
under  these  were  the  last  faded  brown  heads  of 
meadow  clover;  the  brown,  the  bright  yellow 
disks,  the  green  grass,  the  tinted  sunlight  falling 
upon  it,  caused  a  wavering  colour  that  fleeted 
before  the  glance. 

All  things  brown,  and  yellow,  and  red,  are 
brought  out  by  the  autumn  sun  ;  the  brown  fur- 
rows freshly  turned  where  the  stubble  was  yester- 
day, the  brown  bark  of  trees,  the  brown  fallen 
leaves,  the  brown  stalks  of  plants ;  the  red  haws, 
the  red  unripe  blackberries,  red  bryony  berries, 
reddish-yellow  fungi ;  yellow  hawkweed,  yellow 
ragwort,  yellow  hazel-leaves,  elms,  spots  in  lime  or 
beech  ;  not  a  speck  of  yellow,  red,  or  brown  the 
yellow  sunlight  does  not  find  out.  And  these 
make  autumn,  with  the  caw  of  rooks,  the  peculiar 
autumn  caw  of  laziness  and  full  feeding,  the  sky 
blue  as  March  between  the  great  masses  of  dry 
cloud  floating  over,  the  mist  in  the  distant  valleys, 
the  tinkle  of  traces  "as  the  plough  turns,  and  the 
—  204  — 


UNDER     THE     ACORNS 

silence  of  the  woodland  birds.  The  lark  calls  as 
he  rises  from  the  earth,  the  swallows  still  wheeling 
call  as  they  go  over,  but  the  woodland  birds  are 
mostly  still,  and  the  restless  sparrows  gone  forth  in 
a  cloud  to  the  stubble.  Dry  clouds,  because  they 
evidently  contain  no  moisture  that  will  fall  as  rain 
here ;  thick  mists,  condensed  haze  only,  floating 
on  before  the  wind.  The  oaks  were  not  yet  yellow, 
their  leaves  were  half  green,  half  brown  ;  Time 
had  begun  to  invade  them,  but  had  not  yet  indented 
his  full  mark. 

Of  the  year  there  are  two  most  pleasurable 
seasons :  the  spring,  when  the  oak  leaves  come 
russet-brown  on  the  great  oaks ;  the  autumn,  when 
the  oak  leaves  begin  to  turn.  At  the  one,  I  enjoy 
the  summer  that  is  coming ;  at  the  other,  the 
summer  that  is  going.  At  either,  there  is  a  fresh- 
ness in  the  atmosphere,  a  colour  everywhere,  a 
depth  of  blue  in  the  sky,  a  welcome  in  the  woods. 
The  redwings  had  not  yet  come;  the  acorns  were 
full,  but  still  green ;  the  greedy  rooks  longed  to 
see  them  riper.  They  were  very  numerous,  the 
oaks  covered  with  them,  a  crop  for  the  greedy 
rooks,  the  greedier  pigeons,  the  pheasants,  and  the 
jays. 

One  thing  I  missed  —  the  corn.  So  quickly 
was  the  harvest  gathered,  that  those  who  delight  in 
the  colour  of  the  wheat  had  no  time  to  enjoy  it. 
—  205  — 


THE     OPEN     AIR 

If  any  painter  had  been  looking  forward  to  August 
to  enable  him  to  paint  the  corn,  he  must  have  been 
disappointed.  There  was  no  time ;  the  sun  came, 
saw,  and  conquered,  and  the  sheaves  were  swept 
from  the  field.  Before  yet  the  reapers  had  entered 
one  field  of  ripe  wheat,  I  did  indeed  for  a  brief 
evening  obtain  a  glimpse  of  the  richness  and  still 
beauty  of  an  English  harvest.  The  sun  was  down, 
and  in  the  west  a  pearly  grey  light  spread  widely, 
with  a  little  scarlet  drawn  along  its  lower  border. 
Heavy  shadows  hung  in  the  foliage  of  the  elms  j 
the  clover  had  closed,  and  the  quiet  moths  had 
taken  the  place  of  the  humming  bees.  Southwards, 
the  full  moon,  a  red-yellow  disk,  shone  over  the 
wheat,  which  appeared  the  finest  pale  amber.  A 
quiver  of  colour  —  an  undulation  —  seemed  to  stay 
in  the  air,  left  from  the  heated  day ;  the  sunset 
hues  and  those  of  the  red-tinted  moon  fell  as  it 
were  into  the  remnant  of  day,  and  filled  the  wheat ; 
they  were  poured  into  it,  so  that  it  grew  in  their 
colours.  Still  heavier  the  shadows  deepened  in  the 
elms ;  all  was  silence,  save  for  the  sound  of  the 
reapers  on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge,  slash  — 
rustle,  slash  —  rustle,  and  the  drowsy  night  came 
down  as  softly  as  an  eyelid. 

While  I  sat  on  the  log  under  the  oak,  every  now 
and  then  wasps  came  to  the  crooked  pieces  of  sawn 
timber,  which   had    been   barked.     They  did   not 
—  206  — 


UNDER     THE     ACORNS 

appear  to  be  biting  it  —  they  can  easily  snip  off 
fragments  of  the  hardest  oak, —  they  merely  alighted 
and  examined  it,  and  went  on  again.  Looking  at 
them,  I  did  not  notice  the  lane  till  something  moved, 
and  two  young  pheasants  ran  by  along  the  middle 
of  the  track  and  into  the  cover  at  the  side.  The 
grass  at  the  edge  which  they  pushed  through  closed 
behind  them,  and  feeble  as  it  was  —  grass  only  —  it 
shut  off  the  interior  of  the  cover  as  firmly  as  iron 
bars.  The  pheasant  is  a  strong  lock  upon  the  woods ; 
like  one  of  Chubb's  patent  locks,  he  closes  the  woods 
as  firmly  as  an  iron  safe  can  be  shut.  Wherever  the 
pheasant  is  artificially  reared,  and  a  great  "  head  " 
kept  up  for  battue-shooting,  there  the  woods  are 
sealed.  No  matter  if  the  wanderer  approach  with 
the  most  harmless  of  intentions,  it  is  exactly  the 
same  as  if  he  were  a  species  of  burglar.  The 
botanist,  the  painter,  the  student  of  nature,  all  are 
met  with  the  high-barred  gate  and  the  threat  of  law. 
Of  course,  the  pheasant  lock  can  be  opened  by  the 
silver  key;  still,  there  is  the  fact,  that  since  pheasants 
have  been  bred  on  so  large  a  scale,  half  the  beauti- 
ful woodlands  of  England  have  been  fastened  up. 
Where  there  is  no  artificial  rearing  there  is  much 
more  freedom ;  those  who  love  the  forest  can  roam 
at  their  pleasure,  for  it  is  not  the  fear  of  damage  that 
locks  the  gate,  but  the  pheasant.  In  every  sense, 
the  so-called  sport  of  battue-shooting  is  injurious  — • 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


injurious  to  the  sportsman,  to  the  poorer  class,  to  the 
community.  Every  true  sportsman  should  discourage 
it,  and  indeed  does.  I  was  talking  with  a  thorough 
sportsman  recently^,  who  told  me,  to  my  delight,  that 
he  never  reared  birds  by  hand  j  yet  he  had  a  fair 
supply,  and  could  always  give  a  good  day's  sport, 
judged  as  any  reasonable  man  would  judge  sport. 
Nothing  must  enter  the  domains  of  the  hand-reared 
pheasant ;  even  the  nightingale  is  not  safe.  A 
naturalist  has  recorded  that  in  a  district  he  visited, 
the  nightingales  were  always  shot  by  the  keepers 
and  their  eggs  smashed,  because  the  singing  of  these 
birds  at  night  disturbed  the  repose  of  the  pheasants  ! 
They  also  always  stepped  on  the  eggs  of  the  fern- 
owl, which  are  laid  on  the  ground,  and  shot  the  bird 
if  they  saw  it,  for  the  same  reason,  as  it  makes  a 
jarring  sound  at  dusk.  The  fern-owl,  or  goatsucker, 
is  one  of  the  most  harmless  of  birds— -a  sort  of 
evening  swallow  —  living  on  moths,  chafers,  and 
similar  night-flying  insects.  I 

Continuing  my  walk,  still  under  the  oaks  and 
green  acorns,  I  wondered  why  I  did  not  meet  any 
one.  There  was  a  man  cutting  fern  in  the  wood  — 
a  labourer — and  another  cutting  up  thistles  in  a 
field ;  but  with  the  exception  of  men  actually  em- 
ployed and  paid,  I  did  not  meet  a  single  person, 
though  the  lane  I  was  following  is  close  to  several 
well-to-do  places.  I  call  that  a  well-to-do  place 


UNDER     THE     ACORNS 

where  there  are  hundreds  of  large  villas  inhabited 
by  wealthy  people.  It  is  true  that  the  great  majority 
of  persons  have  to  attend  to  business,  even  if  they 
enjoy  a  good  income  ;  still,  making  every  allowance 
for  such  a  necessity,  it  is  singular  how  few,  how  very 
few,  seem  to  appreciate  the  quiet  beauty  of  this  lovely 
country.  Somehow  they  do  not  seem  to  see  it  —  to 
look  over  it ;  there  is  no  excitement  in  it,  for  one 
thing.  They  can  see  a  great  deal  in  Paris,  but 
nothing  in  an  English  meadow.  I  have  often  won- 
dered at  the  rarity  of  meeting  any  one  in  the  fields, 
and  yet  —  curious  anomaly  —  if  you  point  out  any- 
thing, or  describe  it,  the  interest  exhibited  is  marked. 
Every  one  takes  an  interest,  but  no  one  goes  to  see 
for  himself.  For  instance,  since  the  natural  history 
collection  was  removed  from  the  British  Museum  to 
a  separate  building  at  South  Kensington,  it  is  stated 
that  the  visitors  to  the  Museum  have  fallen  from  an 
average  of  twenty-five  hundred  a  day  to  one  thousand; 
the  inference  is  that  out  of  every  twenty-five,  fifteen 
came  to  see  the  natural  history  cases.  Indeed,  it  is 
difficult  to  find  a  person  who  does  not  take  an  interest 
in  some  department  of  natural  history,  and  yet  I 
scarcely  ever  meet  any  one  in  the  fields.  You  may 
meet  many  in  the  autumn,  far  away  in  places  famous 
for  scenery,  but  almost  none  in  the  meadows  at 
home. 

I  stayed  by  a  large  pond  to  look  at  the  shadows  of 
14  —  209  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


the  trees  on  the  green  surface  of  duckweed.  The 
soft  green  of  the  smooth  weed  received  the  shadows 
as  if  specially  prepared  to  show  them  to  advantage. 
The  more  the  tree  was  divided — the  more  interlaced 
its  branches  and  less  laden  with  foliage,  the  more  it 
"came  out "  on  the  green  surface  ;  each  slender  twig 
was  reproduced,  and  sometimes  even  the  leaves. 
From  an  oak,  and  from  a  lime,  leaves  had  fallen, 
and  remained  on  the  green  weed ;  the  flags  by  the 
shore  were  turning  brown ;  a  tint  of  yellow  was 
creeping  up  the  rushes,  and  the  great  trunk  of  a  fir 
shone  reddish  brown  in  the  sunlight.  There  was 
colour  even  about  the  still  pool,  where  the  weeds 
grew  so  thickly  that  the  moorhens  could  scarcely 
swim  through  them. 


DOWNS 


«A  GOOD  road  is  recognised  as  the  ground- 
ff\  \  work  of  civilisation.  So  long  as  there 
if- — X  \  is  a  firm  and  artificial  track  under  his 
*sL  >  \  feet  the  traveller  may  be  said  to  be  in 
contact  with  city  and  town,  no  matter  how  far  they 
may  be  distant.  A  yard  or  two  outside  the  rail- 
way in  America  the  primeval  forest  or  prairie  often 
remains  untouched,  and  much  in  the  same  way, 
though  in  a  less  striking  degree  at  first  sight,  some 
of  our  own  highways  winding  through  Down  dis- 
tricts are  bounded  by  undisturbed  soil.  Such  a 
road  wears  for  itself  a  hollow,  and  the  bank  at  the 
top  is  fringed  with  long  rough  grass  hanging  over 
the  crumbling  chalk.  Broad  discs  of  greater  knap- 
weed with  stalks  like  wire,  and  yellow  toad-flax 
with  spotted  lip  grow  among  it.  Grasping  this 
tough  grass  as  a  handle  to  climb  up  by,  the  ex- 
plorer finds  a  rising  slope  of  sward,  and  having 
walked  over  the  first  ridge,  shutting  off  the  road 
behind  him,  is  at  once  out  of  civilisation.  There 
is  no  noise.  Wherever  there  are  men  there  is  a 
hum,  even  in  the  harvest-field;  and  in  the  road 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


below,  though  lonely,  there  is  sometimes  the  sharp 
clatter  of  hoofs  or  the  grating  of  wheels  on  flints. 
But  here  the  long,  long  slopes,  the  endless  ridges, 
the  gaps  between,  hazy  and  indistinct,  are  abso- 
lutely without  noise.  In  the  sunny  autumn  day 
the  peace  of  the  sky  overhead  is  reflected  in  the 
silent  earth.  Looking  out  over  the  steep  hills,  the 
first  impression  is  of  an  immense  void  like  the  sea ; 
but  there  are  sounds  in  detail,  the  twitter  of  passing 
swallows,  the  restless  buzz  of  bees  at  the  thyme, 
the  rush  of  the  air  beaten  by  a  ringdove's  wings. 
These  only  increase  the  sense  of  silent  peace,  for 
in  themselves  they  soothe  ;  and  how  minute  the 
bee  beside  this  hill,  and  the  dove  to  the  breadth 
of  the  sky  !  A  white  speck  of  thistledown  comes 
upon  a  current  too  light  to  swing  a  harebell  or  be 
felt  by  the  cheek.  The  furze  bushes  are  lined 
with  thistledown,  blown  there  by  a  breeze  now 
still ;  it  is  glossy  in  the  sunbeams,  and  the  yellow 
hawkweeds  cluster  beneath.  The  sweet,  clear  air, 
though  motionless  at  this  height,  cools  the  rays  ; 
but  the  sun  seems  to  pause  and  neither  to  rise 
higher  nor  decline.  It  is  the  space  open  to  the  eye 
which  apparently  arrests  his  movement.  There  is 
no  noise,  and  there  are  no  men. 

Glance  along  the  slope,  up  the  ridge,  across  to 
the  next,  endeavour  to  penetrate  the  hazy  gap,  but 
no  one  is  visible.  In  reality  it  is  not  quite  so  va- 


DOWNS 


cant ;  there  may,  perhaps,  be  four  or  five  men  be- 
tween this  spot  and  the  gap,  which  would  be  a  pass 
if  the  Downs  were  high  enough.  One  is  not  far 
distant ;  he  is  digging  flints  over  the  ridge,  and, 
perhaps,  at  this  moment  rubbing  the  earth  from  a 
corroded  Roman  coin  which  he  has  found  in  the 
pit.  Another  is  thatching,  for  there  are  three  de- 
tached wheat-ricks  round  a  spur  of  the  Down  a 
mile  away,  where  the  plain  is  arable,  and  there, 
too,  a  plough  is  at  work.  A  shepherd  is  asleep 
on  his  back  behind  the  furze  a  mile  in  the  other 
direction.  The  fifth  is  a  lad  trudging  with  a 
message ;  he  is  in  the  nut-copse,  over  the  next 
hill,  very  happy.  By  walking  a  mile  the  explorer 
may,  perhaps,  sight  one  of  these,  if  they  have  not 
moved  by  then  and  disappeared  in  another  hollow. 
And  when  you  have  walked  the  mile  —  knowing 
the  distance  by  the  time  occupied  in  traversing  it 
—  if  you  look  back  you  will  sigh  at  the  hopeless- 
ness of  getting  over  the  hills.  The  mile  is  such  a 
little  way,  only  just  along  one  slope  and  down  into 
the  narrow  valley  strewn  with  flints  and  small  boul- 
ders. If  that  is  a  mile,  it  must  be  another  up  to 
the  white  chalk  quarry  yonder,  another  to  the 
copse  on  the  ridge ;  and  how  far  is  the  hazy  ho- 
rizon where  the  ridges  crowd  on  and  hide  each 
other  ?  Like  rowing  at  sea,  you  row  and  row 
and  row,  and  seem  where  you  started  —  waves  in 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

front  and  waves  behind  ;  so  you  may  walk  and 
walk  and  walk,  and  still  there  is  the  intrenchment 
on  the  summit,  at  the  foot  of  which,  well  in  sight, 
you  were  resting  sojne  hours  ago. 

Rest  again  by  the  furze,  and  some  goldfinches 
come  calling  shrilly  and  feasting  undisturbed  upon 
the  seeds  of  thistles  and  other  plants.  The  bird- 
catcher  does  not  venture  so  far ;  he  would  if  there 
was  a  rail  near  ;  but  he  is  a  lazy  fellow,  fortu- 
nately, and  likes  not  the  weight  of  his  own  nets. 
When  the  stubbles  are  ploughed  there  will  be 
troops  of  finches  and  linnets  up  here,  leaving  the 
hedgerows  of  the  valley  almost  deserted.  Shortly 
the  fieldfares  will  come,  but  not  generally  till  the 
redwings  have  appeared  below  in  the  valleys ; 
while  the  fieldfares  go  upon  the  hills,  the  green 
plovers,  as  autumn  comes  on,  gather  in  flocks  and 
go  down  to  the  plains.  Hawks  regularly  beat  along 
the  furze,  darting  on  a  finch  now  and  then,  and 
owls  pass  by  at  night.  Nightjars,  too,  are  down- 
land  birds,  staying  in  woods  or  fern  by  day,  and 
swooping  on  the  moths  which  flutter  about  the 
furze  in  the  evening.  Crows  are  too  common, 
and  work  on  late  into  the  shadows.  Sometimes, 
in  getting  over  the  low  hedges  which  divide  the 
uncultivated  sward  from  the  ploughed  lands,  you 
almost  step  on  a  crow,  and  it  is  difficult  to  guess 
what  he  can  have  been  about  so  earnestly,  for 


DOWNS 


search  reveals  nothing  —  no  dead  lamb,  hare,  or 
carrion,  or  anything  else  is  visible.  Rooks,  of 
course,  are  seen,  and  larks,  and  once  or  twice  in 
a  morning  a  magpie,  seldom  seen  in  the  culti- 
vated and  preserved  valley.  There  are  more  par- 
tridges than  rigid  game  preservers  would  deem 
possible  where  the  overlooking,  if  done  at  all,  is 
done  so  carelessly.  Partridges  will  never  cease 
out  of  the  land  while  there  are  untouched  downs. 
Of  all  southern  inland  game,  they  afford  the  finest 
sport;  for  sport  in  its  genuine  sense  cannot  be  had 
without  labour,  and  those  who  would  get  partridges 
on  the  hills  must  work  for  them.  Shot  down, 
coursed,  poached,  killed  before  maturity  in  the 
corn,  still  hares  are  fairly  plentiful,  and  couch  in 
the  furze  and  coarse  grasses.  Rabbits  have  much 
decreased;  still  there  are  some.  But  the  larger 
fir  copses,  when  they  are  enclosed,  are  the  resort 
of  all  kinds  of  birds  of  prey  yet  left  in  the  south, 
and,  perhaps,  more  rare  visitors  are  found  there 
than  anywhere  else.  Isolated  on  the  open  hills, 
such  a  copse  to  birds  is  like  an  island  in  the  sea. 
Only  a  very  few  pheasants  frequent  it,  and  little 
effort  is  made  to  exterminate  the  wilder  creatures, 
while  they  are  continually  replenished  by  fresh  ar- 
rivals. Even  ocean  birds  driven  inland  by  stress 
of  weather  seem  to  prefer  the  downs  to  rest  on, 
and  feel  safer  there. 

—  215  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


The  sward  is  the  original  sward,  untouched, 
unploughed,  centuries  old.  It  is  that  which  was 
formed  when  the  woods  that  covered  the  hills  were 
cleared,  whether  bjr  British  tribes  whose  markings 
are  still  to  be  found,  by  Roman  smiths  working  the 
ironstone  (slag  is  sometimes  discovered),  by  Saxon 
settlers,  or  however  it  came  about  in  the  process  of 
the  years.  Probably  the  trees  would  grow  again  were 
it  not  for  sheep  and  horses,  but  these  preserve  the 
sward.  The  plough  has  nibbled  at  it  and  gnawed 
away  great  slices,  but  it  extends  mile  after  mile ; 
these  are  mere  notches  on  its  breadth.  It  is  as  wild 
as  wild  can  be  without  deer  or  savage  beasts.  The 
bees  like  it,  and  the  finches  come.  It  is  silent  and 
peaceful  like  the  sky  above.  By  night  the  stars 
shine,  not  only  overhead  and  in  a  narrow  circle 
round  the  zenith,  but  down  to  the  horizon;  the  walls 
of  the  sky  are  built  up  of  them  as  well  as  the  roof. 
The  sliding  meteors  go  silently  over  the  gleaming 
surface  ;  silently  the  planets  rise  ;  silently  the  earth 
moves  to  the  unfolding  east.  Sometimes  a  lunar 
rainbow  appears ;  a  strange  scene  at  midnight, 
arching  over  almost  from  the  zenith  down  into  the 
dark  hollow  of  the  valley.  At  the  first  glance  it 
seems  white,  but  presently  faint  prismatic  colours 
are  discerned. 

Already  as  the  summer  changes  into  autumn  there 
are  orange  specks  on  the  beeches  in  the  copses,  and 
_ai6  — 


DOWNS 


the  firs  will  presently  be  leafless.  Then  those  who 
live  in  the  farmsteads  placed  at  long  intervals  begin 
to  prepare  for  the  possibilities  of  the  winter.  There 
must  be  a  good  store  of  fuel  and  provisions,  for  it 
will  be  difficult  to  go  down  to  the  villages.  The 
ladies  had  best  add  as  many  new  volumes  as  they 
can  to  the  bookshelf,  for  they  may  be  practically 
imprisoned  for  weeks  together.  Wind  and  rain  are 
very  different  here  from  what  they  are  where  the 
bulwark  of  the  houses  shelters  one  side  of  the  street, 
or  the  thick  hedge  protects  half  the  road.  The  fury 
of  the  storm  is  unchecked,  and  nothing  can  keep  out 
the  raindrops  which  come  with  the  velocity  of  shot. 
If  snow  falls,  as  it  does  frequently,  it  does  not  need 
much  to  obscure  the  path ;  at  all  times  the  path  is 
merely  a  track,  and  the  ruts  worn  down  to  the  white 
chalk  and  the  white  snow  confuse  the  eyes.  Flecks 
of  snow  catch  against  the  bunches  of  grass,  against 
the  furze-bushes,  and  boulders;  if  there  is  a  ploughed 
field,  against  every  clod,  and  the  result  is  bewildering. 
There  is  nothing  to  guide  the' steps,  nothing  to  give 
the  general  direction,  and  once  off  the  track,  unless 
well  accustomed  to  the  district,  the  traveller  may 
wander  in  vain.  After  a  few  inches  have  fallen  the 
roads  are  usually  blocked,  for  all  the  flakes  on  miles 
of  hills  are  swept  along  and  deposited  into  hollows 
where  the  highways  run.  To  be  dug  out  now  and 
then  in  the  winter  is  a  contingency  the  mail-driver 
—  217  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


reckons  as  part  of  his  daily  life,  and  the  waggons 
going  to  and  fro  frequently  pass  between  high  walls 
of  frozen  snow.  In  these  wild  places,  which  can 
scarcely  be  said  to  be  populated  at  all,  a  snow-storm, 
however,  does  not  block  the  King's  highways  and 
paralyse  traffic  as  London  permits  itself  to  be 
paralysed  under  similar  circumstances.  Men  are 
set  to  work  and  cut  a  way  through  in  a  very  short 
time,  and  no  one  makes  the  least  difficulty  about  it. 
But  with  the  tracks  that  lead  to  isolated  farmsteads  it 
is  different;  there  is  not  enough  traffic  to  require  the 
removal  of  the  obstruction,  and  the  drifts  occasion- 
ally accumulate  to  twenty  feet  deep.  The  ladies  are 
imprisoned,  and  must  be  thankful  if  they  have  got 
down  a  box  of  new  novels. 

The  dread  snow-tempest  of  1880-81  swept  over 
these  places  with  tremendous  fury,  and  the  most 
experienced  shepherds,  whose  whole  lives  had  been 
spent  going  to  and  fro  on  the  downs,  frequently  lost 
their  way.  There  is  a  story  of  a  waggoner  and  his 
lad  going  slowly  along  the  road  after  the  thaw,  and 
noticing  an  odd-looking  scarecrow  in  a  field.  They 
went  to  it,  and  found  it  was  a  man,  dead,  and  still 
standing  as  he  had  stiffened  in  the  snow,  the  clothes 
hanging  on  his  withered  body,  and  the  eyes  gone 
from  the  sockets,  picked  out  by  the  crows.  It  is 
only  one  of  many  similar  accounts,  and  it  is  thought 
between  twenty  and  thirty  unfortunate  persons 


DOWNS       2C= 


perished.  Such  miserable  events  are  of  rare 
occurrence,  but  show  how  open,  wild,  and  succour- 
less  the  country  still  remains.  In  ordinary  winters 
it  is  only  strangers  who  need  be  cautious,  and 
strangers  seldom  appear.  Even  in  summer  time, 
however,  a  stranger,  if  he  stays  till  dusk,  may 
easily  wander  for  hours.  Once  off  the  highway,  all 
the  ridges  and  slopes  seem  alike,  and  there  is  no 
end  to  them. 


—  219  — 


FOREST 


beechnuts  are  already  falling  in  the 
forest,  and  the  swine  are  beginning  to 
search  for  them  while  yet  the  harvest 
lingers.  The  nuts  are  formed  by  mid- 
summer, and  now,  the  husk  opening,  the  brown 
angular  kernel  drops  out.  Many  of  the  husks  fall, 
too ;  others  remain  on  the  branches  till  next  spring. 
Under  the  beeches  the  ground  is  strewn  with  the 
mast  as  hard  almost  to  walk  on  as  pebbles.  Rude 
and  uncouth  as  swine  are  in  themselves,  somehow 
they  look  different  under  trees.  The  brown  leaves 
amid  which  they  rout,  and  the  brown-tinted  fern 
behind  lend  something  of  their  colour  and  smooth 
away  their  ungainliness.  Snorting  as  they  work 
with  very  eagerness  of  appetite,  they  are  almost  wild, 
approaching  in  a  measure  to  their  ancestors,  the 
savage  boars.  Under  the  trees  the  imagination 
plays  unchecked,  and  calls  up  the  past  as  if  yew 
bow  and  broad  arrow  were  still  in  the  hunter's 
hands.  So  little  is  changed  since  then.  The  deer 
are  here  still.  Sit  down  on  the  root  of  this  oak 
(thinly  covered  with  moss),  and  on  that  very  spot 


FOREST 

it  is  quite  possible  a  knight  fresh  home  from  the 
Crusades  may  have  rested  and  feasted  his  eyes  on  the 
lovely  green  glades  of  his  own  unsurpassed  England. 
The  oak  was  there  then,  young  and  strong ;  it  is 
here  now,  ancient,  but  sturdy.  Rarely  do  you  see 
an  oak  fall  of  itself.  It  decays  to  the  last  stump ; 
it  does  not  fall.  The  sounds  are  the  same  —  the 
tap  as  a  ripe  acorn  drops,  the  rustle  of  a  leaf 
which  comes  down  slowly,  the  quick  rushes  of 
mice  playing  in  the  fern.  A  movement  at  one 
side  attracts  the  glance,  and  there  is  a  squirrel 
darting  about.  There  is  another  at  the  very  top 
of  the  beech  yonder  out  on  the  boughs,  nibbling 
the  nuts.  A  brown  spot  a  long  distance  down 
the  glade  suddenly  moves,  and  thereby  shows  itself 
to  be  a  rabbit.  The  bellowing  sound  that  comes 
now  and  then  is  from  the  stags,  which  are  pre- 
paring to  fight.  The  swine  snort,  and  the  mast 
and  leaves  rustle  as  they  thrust  them  aside.  So 
little  is  changed  :  these  are  the  same  sounds  and 
the  same  movements,  just  as  in  the  olden  time. 

The  soft  autumn  sunshine,  shorn  of  summer 
glare,  lights  up  with  colour  the  fern,  the  fronds  of 
which  are  yellow  and  brown,  the  leaves,  the  grey 
grass,  and  hawthorn  sprays  already  turned.  It 
seems  as  if  the  early  morning's  mists  have  the 
power  of  tinting  leaf  and  fern,  for  so  soon  as  they 
commence  the  green  hues  begin  to  disappear. 


THE     OPEN     AIR 


There  are  swathes  of  fern  yonder,  cut  down  like 
grass  or  corn,  the  harvest  of  the  forest.  It  will  be 
used  for  litter  and  for  thatching  sheds.  The  yellow 
stalks  —  the  stubble  —  will  turn  brown  and  wither 
through  the  wintet,  till  the  strong  spring  shoot 
comes  up  and  the  anemones  flower.  Though  the 
sunbeams  reach  the  ground  here,  half  the  green 
glade  is  in  shadow,  and  for  one  step  that  you  walk 
in  sunlight  ten  are  in  shade.  Thus,  partly  con- 
cealed in  full  day,  the  forest  always  contains  a 
mystery.  The  idea  that  there  may  be  something 
in  the  dim  arches  held  up  by  the  round  columns  of 
the  beeches  lures  the  footsteps  onwards.  Some- 
thing must  have  been  lately  in  the  circle  under  the 
oak  where  the  fern  and  bushes  remain  at  a  distance 
and  wall  in  a  lawn  of  green.  There  is  nothing  on 
the  grass  but  the  upheld  leaves  that  have  dropped, 
no  mark  of  any  creature,  but  this  is  not  decisive ; 
if  there  are  no  physical  signs,  there  is  a  feeling 
that  the  shadow  is  not  vacant.  In  the  thickets, 
perhaps  —  the  shadowy  thickets  with  front  of  thorn 
—  it  has  taken  refuge  and  eluded  us.  Still  onward 
the  shadows  lead  us  in  vain  but  pleasant  chase. 

These  endless  trees  are  a  city  to  the  tree-building 
birds.  The  round  knot-holes  in  the  beeches,  the 
holes  in  the  elms  and  oaks ;  they  find  them  all  out. 
From  these  issue  the  immense  flocks  of  starlings 
which,  when  they  alight  on  an  isolated  elm  in 


FOREST 


winter,  make  it  suddenly  black.  From  these,  too, 
come  forth  the  tits,  not  so  welcome  to  the  farmer, 
as  he  considers  they  reduce  his  fruit  crop ;  and  in 
these  the  gaudy  woodpeckers  breed.  With  starlings, 
wood-pigeons,  and  rooks  the  forest  is  crowded  like 
a  city  in  spring,  but  now  in  autumn  it  is  compara- 
tively deserted.  The  birds  are  away  in  the  fields, 
some  at  the  grain,  others  watching  the  plough, 
and  following  it  so  soon  as  a  furrow  is  opened. 
But  the  stoats  are  busy — they  have  not  left,  nor 
the  weasels;  and  so  eager  are  they  that,  though 
they  hide  in  the  fern  at  first,  in  a  minute  or  two 
they  come  out  again,  and  so  get  shot. 

Like  the  fields,  which  can  only  support  a  certain 
proportion  of  cattle,  the  forest,  wide  as  it  seems,  can 
only  maintain  a  certain  number  of  deer.  Carrying 
the  same  thought  further,  it  will  be  obvious  that 
the  forest,  or  England  in  a  natural  state,  could  only 
support  a  limited  human  population.  Is  this  why 
the  inhabitants  of  countries  like  France,  where  they 
cultivate  every  rood  and  try  to  really  keep  a  man  to 
a  rood,  do  not  increase  in  number?  Certainly  there 
is  a  limit  in  nature  which  can  only  be  overcome  by 
artificial  aid.  After  wandering  for  some  time  in  a 
forest  like  this,  the  impression  arises  that  the  fauna 
is  not  now  large  enough  to  be  in  thorough  keeping 
with  the  trees  —  their  age  and  size  and  number. 
The  breadth  of  the  arboreal  landscape  requires  a 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


longer  list  of  living  creatures,  and  creatures 
greater  bulk.  The  stoat  and  weasel  are  lost 
bramble  and  fern,  the  squirrels  in  the  branche 
the  fox  is  concealed,  and  the  badger;  the  rabb 
too,  is  small.  There  are  only  the  deer,  and  the 
is  a  wide  gap  between  them  and  the  hares.  Ev 
the  few  cattle  which  are  permitted  to  graze  a 
better  than  nothing;  though  not  wild,  yet  standi. 
in  fern  to  their  shoulders  and  browsing  on  t 
lower  branches,  they  are,  at  all  events,  animals  f 
the  time  in  nearly  a  natural  state.  By  watchii 
them  it  is  apparent  how  well  the  original  wild  cati 
agreed  with  the  original  scenery  of  the  islan 
One  almost  regrets  the  marten  and  polecat,  th 
both  small  creatures,  and  wishes  that  the  fox  wou 
come  forth  more  by  day.  These  acres  of  brackc 
and  impenetrable  thickets  need  more  inhabitant; 
how  well  they  are  fitted  for  the  wild  boar  !  Sue 
thoughts  are,  of  course,  only  thoughts,  and  we  mu 
be  thankful  that  we  have  as  many  wild  creatun 
left  as  we  have. 

Looking  at  the  soil  as  we  walk,  where  it 
exposed  by  the  roots  of  a  fallen  tree,  or  whet 
there  is  an  old  gravel  pit,  the  question  occui 
whether  forests,  managed  as  they  are  in  old  cour 
tries,  ever  really  increase  the  fertility  of  the  earth; 
That  decaying  vegetation  produces  a  fine  moul 
cannot  be  disputed ;  but  it  seems  here  that  there  i 
—  1*4  — 


FOREST 


;o  more  decaying  vegetation  than  is  required  for 

he  support  of  the  trees  themselves.     The  leaves 

-'^at  fall  —  the  million  million  leaves  —  blown  to 

nd  fro,  at  last  disappear,  absorbed  into  the  ground. 

.0  with  quantities  of  the  lesser  twigs  and  branches  ; 

<ut  these  together  do  not  supply  more  material  to 

rihe  soil  than  is  annually  abstracted  by  the  extensive 

ijoots  of  trees,  of  bushes,  and   by   the   fern.     If 

^imber  is  felled,  it  is  removed,  and  the  bark  and 

choughs  with   it;    the  stump,  too,  is  grubbed  and 

olit  for  firewood.     If  a  tree  dies,  it  is  presently 

.wn  off  and  cut  up   for  some  secondary  use  or 

ther.     The  great  branches  which  occasionally  fall 

re  some  one's  perquisite.     When  the  thickets  are 

Chinned  out,  the  fagots  are  carted  away,  and  much 

j!  f  the  fern  is  also  removed.     How,  then,  can  there 

;  j  e  any  accumulation  of  fertilising  material  ?    Rather 

l;he  reverse;   it  is,  if  anything,  taken  away,  and  the 

5) oil  must  be  less  rich  now  than  it  was  in  bygone 

Centuries.     Left  to  itself  the  process  would  be  the 

;everse,  every  tree  as  it  fell  slowly  enriching  the 

jipot  where  it  mouldered,  and  all  the  bulk  of  the 

!mber  converted  into  fertile  earth.     It  was  in  this 

j/ay  that  the  American  forests  laid  the  foundation 

jj  f  the  inexhaustible  wheat-lands  there.     But   the 

nodern  management  of  a  forest  tends  in  the  oppo- 

jite  direction  —  too  much  is  removed;    for  if  it  is 

j^ished  to  improve  a  soil  by  the  growth  of  timber, 

15  —225  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

something  must  be  left  in  it  besides  the  mere  roots. 
The  leaves,  even,  are  not  all  left ;  they  have  < 
value  for  gardening  purposes  :  though,  of  course, 
the  few  cartloads. %  collected  make  no  appreciable 
difference. 

There  is  always  something  going  on  in  the 
forest;  and  more  men  are  employed  than  would  be 
supposed.  In  the  winter  the  selected  elms  are 
thrown  and  the  ash  poles  cut ;  in  the  spring  the 
oak  timber  comes  down  and  is  barked ;  in  the 
autumn  the  fern  is  cut.  Splitting  up  wood  goes  on 
nearly  all  the  year  round,  so  that  you  may  always 
hear  the  axe.  No  charcoal-burning  is  practised, 
but  the  mere  maintenance  of  the  fences,  as,  for 
instance,  round  the  pheasant  enclosures,  gives  much 
to  do.  Deer  need  attention  in  winter,  like  cattle ; 
the  game  has  its  watchers ;  and  ferreting  lasts  for 
months.  So  that  the  forest  is  not  altogether  use- 
less from  the  point  of  view  of  work.  But  in  so 
many  hundred  acres  of  trees  these  labourers 
are  lost  to  sight,  and  do  not  in  the  least  detract 
from  its  wild  appearance.  Indeed,  the  occa- 
sional ring  of  the  axe  or  the  smoke  rising  from 
the  woodman's  fire  accentuates  the  fact  that  it  is  a 
forest.  The  oaks  keep  a  circle  round  their  base 
and  stand  at  a  majestic  distance  from  each  other, 
so  that  the  wind  and  the  sunshine  enter,  and  their 
precincts  are  sweet  and  pleasant.  The  elms  gather 


FOREST 


together,  rubbing  their  branches  in  the  gale  till  the 
bark  is  worn  off  and  the  boughs  die  ;  the  shadow 
is  deep  under  them,  and  moist,  favourable  to  rank 
grass  and  coarse  mushrooms.  Beneath  the  ashes, 
after  the  first  frost,  the  air  is  full  of  the  bitterness 
of  their  blackened  leaves,  which  have  all  come 
down  at  once.  By  the  beeches  there  is  little 
underwood,  and  the  hollows  are  filled  ankle-deep 
with  their  leaves.  From  the  pines  comes  a  fragrant 
odour,  and  thus  the  character  of  each  group  dom- 
inates the  surrounding  ground.  The  shade  is  too 
much  for  many  flowers,  which  prefer  the  nooks  of 
hedgerows.  If  there  is  no  scope  for  the  use  of 
"  express  "  rifles,  this  southern  forest  really  is  a 
forest  and  not  an  open  hillside.  It  is  a  forest  of 
trees,  and  there  are  no  woodlands  so  beautiful  and 
enjoyable  as  these,  where  it  is  possible  to  be  lost 
a  while  without  fear  of  serious  consequences  ; 
where  you  can  walk  without  stepping  up  to  the  waist 
in  a  decayed  tree-trunk,  or  floundering  in  a  bog  ; 
where  neither  venomous  snake  nor  torturing  mos- 
quito causes  constant  apprehensions  and  constant 
irritation.  To  the  eye  there  is  nothing  but  beauty  ; 
to  the  imagination  pleasant  pageants  of  old  time  ; 
to  the  ear  the  soothing  cadence  of  the  leaves  as  the 
gentle  breeze  goes  over.  The  beeches  rear  their 
Gothic  architecture  ;  the  oaks  are  planted  firm  like 
castles,  unassailable.  Quick  squirrels  climb  and 
—  227  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


dart  hither  and  thither,  deer  cross  the  distant  glade, 
and,  occasionally,  a  hawk  passes  like  thought. 

The  something  that  may  be  in  the  shadow  or 
the  thicket,  the  vain,  pleasant  chase  that  beckons 
us  on,  still  leads  the  footsteps  from  tree  to  tree,  till 
by-and-by  a  lark  sings,  and,  going  to  look  for  it, 
we  find  the  stubble  outside  the  forest — stubble 
still  bright  with  the  blue  and  white  flowers  of  grey 
speedwell.  One  of  the  earliest  to  bloom  in  the 
spring,  it  continues  till  the  plough  comes  again  in 
autumn.  Now  looking  back  from  the  open  stubble 
on  the  high  wall  of  trees,  the  touch  of  autumn  here 
and  there  is  the  more  visible  —  oaks  dotted  with 
brown,  horse-chestnuts  yellow,  maples  orange,  and 
the  bushes  beneath  red  with  haws. 


BEAUTY   IN   THE   COUNTRY 


I.    THE  MAKING  OF  BEAUTY 

YTT  takes  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  to  make 
I  a  beauty  —  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  out- 
I  of-doors.  Open  air,  hard  manual  labour  or 
•s-  v.  continuous  exercise,  good  food,  good  cloth- 
ing, some  degree  of  comfort,  all  of  these,  but  most 
especially  open  air,  must  play  their  part  for  five 
generations  before  a  beautiful  woman  can  appear. 
These  conditions  can  only  be  found  in  the  country, 
and  consequently  all  beautiful  women  come  from 
the  country.  Though  the  accident  of  birth  may 
cause  their  register  to  be  signed  in  town,  they 
are  always  of  country  extraction. 

Let  us  glance  back  a  hundred  and  fifty  years, 
say  to  1735,  and  suppose  a  yeoman  to  have  a  son 
about  that  time.  That  son  would  be  bred  upon 
the  hardest  fare,  but,  though  hard,  it  would  be 
plentiful  and  of  honest  sort.  The  bread  would 
be  home-baked,  the  beef  salted  at  home,  the  ale 
home-brewed.  He  would  work  all  day  in  the 
fields  with  the  labourers,  but  he  would  have  three 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

great  advantages  over  them  —  in  good  and  plenti- 
ful food,  in  good  clothing,  and  in  home  comforts. 
He  would  ride,  and  join  all  the  athletic  sports  of 
the  time.  Mere  manual  labour  stiffens  the  limbs, 
gymnastic  exercises  render  them  supple.  Thus  he 
would  obtain  immense  strength  from  simple  hard 
work,  and  agility  from  exercise.  Here,  then,  is 
a  sound  constitution,  a  powerful  frame,  well  knit, 
hardened  —  an  almost  perfect  physical  existence. 

He  would  marry,  if  fortunate,  at  thirty  or  thirty- 
five,  naturally  choosing  the  most  charming  of  his 
acquaintances.  She  would  be  equally  healthy  and 
proportionally  as  strong,  for  the  ladies  of  those  days 
were  accustomed  to  work  from  childhood.  By  cus- 
tom soon  after  marriage  she  would  work  harder 
than  before,  notwithstanding  her  husband's  fair 
store  of  guineas  in  the  iron-bound  box.  The 
house,  the  dairy,  the  cheese-loft,  would  keep  her 
arms  in  training.  Even  since  I  recollect,  the  work 
done  by  ladies  in  country  houses  was  something 
astonishing,  ladies  by  right  of  well-to-do  parents, 
by  right  of  education  and  manners.  Really,  it 
seems  that  there  is  no  work  a  woman  cannot 
do  with  the  best  results  for  herself,  always  pro- 
vided that  it  does  not  throw  a  strain  upon  the 
loins.  Healthy  children  sprung  from  such  par- 
ents, while  continuing  the  general  type,  usually 
tend  towards  a  refinement  of  the  features.  Under 
—  a3o  — 


IN    THE 

such  natural  and  healthy  conditions,  if  the  mother 
have  a  good  shape,  the  daughter  is  finer;  if  the 
father  be  of  good  height,  the  son  is  taller.  These 
children  in  their  turn  go  through  the  same  open- 
air  training.  In  the  course  of  years,  the  family 
guineas  increasing,  home  comforts  increase,  and 
manners  are  polished.  Another  generation  sees 
the  cast  of  countenance  smoothed  of  its  original 
ruggedness,  while  preserving  its  good  proportion. 
The  hard  chin  becomes  rounded  and  not  too 
prominent,  the  cheek-bones  sink,  the  ears  are 
smaller,  a  softness  spreads  itself  over  the  whole 
face.  That  which  was  only  honest  now  grows 
tender.  Again  another  generation,  and  it  is  a  set- 
tled axiom  that  the  family  are  handsome.  The 
country-side  as  it  gossips  agrees  that  the  family 
are  marked  out  as  good-looking.  Like  seeks  like, 
as  we  know ;  the  handsome  intermarry  with  the 
handsome.  Still,  the  beauty  has  not  arrived  yet, 
nor  is  it  possible  to  tell  whether  she  will  appear 
from  the  female  or  male  branches.  But  in  the 
fifth  generation  appear  she  does,  with  the  origi- 
nal features  so  moulded  and  softened  by  time,  so 
worked  and  refined  and  sweetened,  so  delicate  and 
yet  so  rich  in  blood,  that  she  seems  like  a  new 
creation  that  has  suddenly  started  into  being.  No 
one  has  watched  and  recorded  the  slow  process 
which  has  thus  finally  resulted.  No  one  could  do 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

so,  because  it  has  spread  over  a  century  and  a  half. 
If  any  one  will  consider,  they  will  agree  that  the 
sentiment  at  the  sight  of  a  perfect  beauty  is  as 
much  amazement  as  admiration.  It  is  so  astound- 
ing, so  outside  ordinary  experience,  that  it  wears 
the  aspect  of  magic. 

A  stationary  home  preserves  the  family  intact, 
so  that  the  influences  already  described  have  time 
to  produce  their  effect.  There  is  nothing  uncom- 
mon in  a  yeoman's  family  continuing  a  hundred 
and  fifty  years  in  the  same  homestead.  Instances 
are  known  of  such  occupation  extending  for  over 
two  hundred  years ;  cases  of  three  hundred  years 
may  be  found :  now  and  then  one  is  known  to 
exceed  that,  and  there  is  said  to  be  one  that  has 
not  moved  for  six  hundred.  Granting  the  stock 
in  its  origin  to  have  been  fairly  well  proportioned, 
and  to  have  been  subject  for  such  a  lapse  of  time 
to  favourable  conditions,  the  rise  of  beauty  becomes 
intelligible. 

Cities  labour  under  every  disadvantage.  First, 
families  have  no  stationary  home,  but  constantly 
move,  so  that  it  is  rare  to  find  one  occupying  a 
house  fifty  years,  and  will  probably  become  much 
rarer  in  the  future.  Secondly,  the  absence  of 
fresh  air,  and  that  volatile  essence,  as  it  were, 
of  woods,  and  fields,  and  hills,  which  can  be 
felt  but  not  fixed.  Thirdly,  the  sedentary  em- 


BEAUTY    IN    THE    COUNTRY^ 

ployment.  Let  a  family  be  never  so  robust, 
these  must  ultimately  affect  the  constitution.  If 
beauty  appears  it  is  too  often  of  the  unhealthy 
order ;  there  is  no  physique,  no  vigour,  no  rich- 
ness of  blood.  Beauty  of  the  highest  order  is 
inseparable  from  health ;  it  is  the  outcome  of 
health  —  centuries  of  health  —  and  a  really  beauti- 
ful woman  is,  in  proportion,  stronger  than  a  man. 
It  is  astonishing  with  what  persistence  a  type  of 
beauty  once  established  in  the  country  will  struggle 
to  perpetuate  itself  against  all  the  drawbacks  of 
town  life  after  the  family  has  removed  thither. 

When  such  results  are  produced  under  favour- 
able conditions  at  the  yeoman's  homestead,  no 
difficulty  arises  in  explaining  why  loveliness  so 
frequently  appears  in  the  houses  of  landed  pro- 
prietors. Entailed  estates  fix  the  family  in  one 
spot,  and  tend,  by  intermarriage,  to  deepen  any 
original  physical  excellence.  Constant  out-of-door 
exercise,  riding,  hunting,  shooting,  takes  the  place 
of  manual  labour.  All  the  refinements  that  money 
can  purchase,  travel,  education,  are  here  at  work. 
That  the  culture  of  the  mind  can  alter  the  expres- 
sion of  the  individual  is  certain  ;  if  continued  for 
many  generations,  possibly  it  may  leave  its  mark 
upon  the  actual  bodily  frame.  Selection  exerts  a 
most  powerful  influence  in  these  cases.  The  rich 
and  titled  have  so  wide  a  range  to  choose  from. 
—  *33  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

Consider  these  things  working  through  centuries, 
perhaps  in  a  more  or  less  direct  manner,  since 
the  Norman  Conquest.  The  fame  of  some  such 
families  for  handsome  features  and  well-propor- 
tioned frames  is  widely  spread,  so  much  so  that 
a  descendant  not  handsome  is  hardly  regarded  by 
the  outside  world  as  legitimate.  But  even  with 
all  these  advantages  beauty  in  the  fullest  sense 
does  not  appear  regularly.  Few  indeed  are  those 
families  that  can  boast  of  more  than  one.  It  is 
the  best  of  all  boasts ;  it  is  almost  as  if  the  Immor- 
tals had  especially  favoured  their  house.  Beauty 
has  no  period ;  it  comes  at  intervals,  unexpected ; 
it  cannot  be  fixed.  No  wonder  the  earth  is  at  its 
feet. 

The  fisherman's  daughter  ere  now  has  reached 
very  high  in  the  scale  of  beauty.  Hardihood  is  the 
fisherman's  talent  by  which  he  wins  his  living  from 
the  sea.  Tribal  in  his  ways,  his  settlements  are 
almost  exclusive,  and  his  descent  pure.  The  wind 
washed  by  the  sea  enriches  his  blood,  and  of  labour 
he  has  enough.  Here  are  the  same  constant  factors; 
the  stationary  home  keeping  the  family  intact,  the 
out-door  life,  the  air,  the  sea,  the  sun.  Refinement 
is  absent,  but  these  alone  are  so  powerful  that  now 
and  then  beauty  appears.  The  lovely  Irish  girls, 
again:  their  forefathers  have  dwelt  on  the  mountain- 
side since  the  days  of  Fingal,  and  all  the  hardships 
—  234— 


IN    THE    COUNTRY 

of  their  lot  cannot  destroy  the  natural  tendency  to 
shape  and  enchanting  feature.  Without  those  con- 
stant factors  beauty  cannot  be,  but  yet  they  will 
not  alone  produce  it.  There  must  be  something 
in  the  blood  which  these  influences  gradually  ripen. 
If  it  is  not  there  centuries  are  in  vain ;  but  if  it 
is  there  then  it  needs  these  conditions.  Erratic, 
meteor-like  beauty  !  for  how  many  thousand  years 
has  man  been  your  slave !  Let  me  repeat,  the 
sentiment  at  the  sight  of  a  perfect  beauty  is  as 
much  amazement  as  admiration.  It  so  draws  the 
heart  out  of  itself  as  to  seem  like  magic. 

She  walks,  and  the  very  earth  smiles  beneath  her 
feet.  Something  comes  with  her  that  is  more  than 
mortal;  witness  the  yearning  welcome  that  stretches 
towards  her  from  all.  As  the  sunshine  lights  up 
the  aspect  of  things,  so  her  presence  sweetens  the 
very  flowers  like  dew.  But  the  yearning  welcome 
is,  I  think,  the  most  remarkable  of  the  evidence 
that  may  be  accumulated  about  it.  So  deep,  so 
earnest,  so  forgetful  of  the  rest,  the  passion  of 
beauty  is  almost  sad  in  its  intense  abstraction.  It 
is  a  passion,  this  yearning.  She  walks  in  the  glory 
of  young  life ;  she  is  really  centuries  old. 

A  hundred  and  fifty  years  at  the  least  —  more 
probably  twice  that  —  have  passed  away,  while  from 
all  enchanted  things  of  earth  and  air  this  precious- 
ness  has  been  drawn.  From  the  south  wind  that 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


breathed  a  century  and  a  half  ago  over  the  green 
wheat.  From  the  perfume  of  the  growing  grasses 
waving  over  honey-laden  clover  and  laughing  veron- 
ica, hiding  the  greerjfinches,  baffling  the  bee.  From 
rose-loved  hedges,  woodbine,  and  cornflower  azure- 
blue,  where  yellowing  wheat-stalks  crowd  up  under 
the  shadow  of  green  firs.  All  the  devious  brooklet's 
sweetness  where  the  iris  stays  the  sunlight ;  all  the 
wild  woods  hold  of  beauty  ;  all  the  broad  hill's 
thyme  and  freedom  :  thrice  a  hundred  years  repeated. 
A  hundred  years  of  cowslips,  bluebells,  violets  ; 
purple  spring  and  golden  autumn;  sunshine,  shower, 
and  dewy  mornings ;  the  night  immortal ;  all  the 
rhythm  of  Time  unrolling.  A  chronicle  unwritten 
and  past  all  power  of  writing  :  who  shall  preserve 
a  record  of  the  petals  that  fell  from  the  roses  a 
century  ago?  The  swallows  to  the  housetop  three 
hundred  times  —  think  a  moment  of  that.  Thence 
she  sprang,  and  the  world  yearns  towards  her  beauty 
as  to  flowers  that  are  past.  The  loveliness  of  seven- 
teen is  centuries  old.  Is  this  why  passion  is  almost 
sad? 

II.   THE  FORCE  OF  FORM 

HER  shoulders  were  broad,  but  not  too  broad  — 
just  enough  to  accentuate  the  waist,  and  to  give  a 
pleasant  sense  of  ease  and  power.    She  was  strong, 
-236- 


BEAUTY    IN    THE    COUNTRY 

upright,  self-reliant,  finished  in  herself.  Her  bust 
was  full,  but  not  too  prominent  —  more  after  nature 
than  the  dressmaker.  There  was  something,  though, 
of  the  corset-maker  in  her  waist,  it  appeared  natu- 
rally fine,  and  had  been  assisted  to  be  finer.  But 
it  was  in  the  hips  that  the  woman  was  perfect :  — 
fulness  without  coarseness ;  large  but  not  big :  in  a 
word,  nobly  proportioned.  Now  imagine  a  black 
dress  adhering  to  this  form.  From  the  shoulders 
to  the  ankles  it  fitted  "  like  a  glove."  There  was 
not  a  wrinkle,  a  fold,  a  crease,  smooth  as  if  cast  in 
a  mould,  and  yet  so  managed  that  she  moved  with- 
out effort.  Every  undulation  of  her  figure  as  she 
stepped  lightly  forward  flowed  to  the  surface.  The 
slight  sway  of  the  hip  as  the  foot  was  lifted,  the 
upward  and  inward  movement  of  the  limb  as  the 
knee  was  raised,  the  straightening  as  the  instep  felt 
her  weight,  each  change  as  the  limb  described  the 
curves  of  walking  was  repeated  in  her  dress.  At 
every  change  of  position  she  was  as  gracefully  draped 
as  before.  All  was  revealed,  yet  all  concealed.  As 
she  passed  there  was  the  sense  of  a  presence  —  the 
presence  of  perfect  form.  She  was  lifted  as  she 
moved  above  the  ground  by  the  curves  of  beauty 
as  rapid  revolution  in  a  curve  suspends  the  down- 
dragging  of  gravity.  A  force  went  by  —  the  force 
of  animated  perfect  form. 

Merely  as  an  animal,  how  grand  and  beautiful  is 
—  137  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

a  perfect  woman  !  Simply  as  a  living,  breathing 
creature,  can  anything  imaginable  come  near  her  ? 

There  is  such  strength  in  shape  —  such  force  in 
form.  Without  muscular  development  shape  con- 
veys the  impression  of  the  greatest  of  all  strength 
—  that  is,  of  completeness  in  itself.  The  ancient 
philosophy  regarded  a  globe  as  the  most  perfect  of 
all  bodies,  because  it  was  the  same — that  is,  it  was 
perfect  and  complete  in  itself — from  whatever 
point  it  was  contemplated.  Such  is  woman's 
form  when  nature's  intent  is  fulfilled  in  beauty, 
and  that  beauty  gives  the  idea  of  self-contained 
power. 

A  full-grown  woman  is,  too,  physically  stronger 
than  a  man.  Her  physique  excels  man's.  Look 
at  her  torso,  at  the  size,  the  fulness,  the  rounded 
firmness,  the  depth  of  the  chest.  There  is  a  noble- 
ness about  it.  Shoulders,  arms,  limbs,  all  reach  a 
breadth  of  make  seldom  seen  in  man.  There  is 
more  than  merely  sufficient  —  there  is  a  luxuriance 
indicating  a  surpassing  vigour.  And  this  occurs 
without  effort.  She  needs  no  long  manual  labour, 
no  exhaustive  gymnastic  exercise,  nor  any  special 
care  in  food  or  training.  It  is  difficult  not  to  envy 
the  superb  physique  and  beautiful  carriage  of  some 
women.  They  are  so  strong  without  effort. 


-238- 


IN    THE    COUNTRY2EE 


III.    AN  ARM 

A  LARGE  white  arm,  bare,  in  the  sunshine,  to  the 
shoulder,  carelessly  leant  against  a  low  red  wall, 
lingers  in  my  memory.  There  was  a  house  roofed 
with  old  grey  stone  slates  in  the  background,  and 
peaches  trained  up  by  the  window.  The  low  gar- 
den wall  of  red  brick  —  ancient  red  brick,  not  the 
pale,  dusty  blocks  of  these  days  —  was  streaked  with 
dry  mosses  hiding  the  mortar.  Clear  and  brilliant, 
the  gaudy  sun  of  morning  shone  down  upon  her  as 
she  stood  in  the  gateway,  resting  her  arm  on  the 
red  wall,  and  pressing  on  the  mosses  which  the 
heat  had  dried.  Her  face  I  do  not  remember,  only 
the  arm.  She  had  come  out  from  dairy  work,  which 
needs  bare  arms,  and  stood  facing  the  bold  sun.  It 
was  very  large  —  some  might  have  called  it  im- 
mense —  and  yet  natural  and  justly  proportioned 
to  the  woman,  her  work,  and  her  physique.  So 
immense  an  arm  was  like  a  revelation  of  the  vast 
physical  proportions  which  our  race  is  capable  of 
attaining  under  favourable  conditions.  Perfectly 
white  — white  as  the  milk  in  which  it  was  often 
plunged  —  smooth  and  pleasant  in  the  texture  of 
the  skin,  it  was  entirely  removed  from  coarseness. 
The  might  of  its  size  was  chiefly  by  the  shoulder; 
the  wrist  was  not  large,  nor  the  hand.  Colossal, 
—  239  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

white,  sunlit,  bare  —  among  the  trees  and  the  meads 
around  —  it  was  a  living  embodiment  of  the  limbs 
we  attribute  to  the  first  dwellers  on  earth. 


IV.   LIPS 

THE  mouth  is  the  centre  of  woman's  beauty. 
To  the  lips  the  glance  is  attracted  the  moment 
she  approaches,  and  their  shape  remains  in  the 
memory  longest.  Curve,  colour,  and  substance 
are  the  three  essentials  of  the  lips,  but  these  are 
nothing  without  mobility,  the  soul  of  the  mouth. 
If  neither  sculpture,  nor  the  palette  with  its  varied 
resources,  can  convey  the  spell  of  perfect  lips,  how 
can  it  be  done  in  black  letters  of  ink  only  ?  Noth- 
ing is  so  difficult,  nothing  so  beautiful.  There  are 
lips  which  have  an  elongated  curve  (of  the  upper 
one),  ending  with  a  slight  curl,  like  a  ringlet  at  the 
end  of  a  tress,  like  those  tiny  wavelets  on  a  level 
sand  which  float  in  before  the  tide,  or  like  a  frond 
of  fern  unrolling.  In  this  curl  there  lurks  a  smile, 
so  that  she  can  scarcely  open  her  mouth  without  a 
laugh,  or  the  look  of  one.  These  upper  lips  are 
drawn  with  parallel  lines,  the  verge  is  defined  by 
two  lines  near  together,  enclosing  the  narrowest 
space  possible,  which  is  ever  so  faintly  less  col- 
oured than  the  substance  of  the  lip.  This  makes 
the  mouth  appear  larger  than  it  really  is  ;  the  bow, 
—  240  — 


H3KBEAUTY    IN    THE    COUNTRY 


too,  is  more  flattened  than  in  the  pure  Greek  lip. 
It  is  beautiful,  but  not  perfect,  tempting,  mischie- 
vous, not  retiring,  and  belongs  to  a  woman  who  is 
never  long  alone.  Xo  describe  it  first  is  natural, 
because  this  mouth  is  itself  the  face,  and  the  rest 
of  the  features  are  grouped  to  it.  If  you  think  of 
her  you  think  of  her  mouth  only  —  the  face  appears 
as  memory  acts,  but  the  mouth  is  distinct,  the  re- 
mainder uncertain.  She  laughs  and  the  curl  runs 
upwards,  so  that  you  must  laugh  too,  you  cannot 
help  it.  Had  the  curl  gone  downwards,  as  with 
habitually  melancholy  people,  you  might  have  with- 
stood her  smile.  The  room  is  never  dull  where  she 
is,  for  there  is  a  distinct  character  in  it — a  woman 
—  and  not  a  mere  living  creature,  and  it  is  notice- 
able that  if  there  are  five  or  six  or  more  present, 
somehow  the  conversation  centres  round  her. 

There  was  a  lady  I  knew  who  had  lips  like  these. 
Of  the  kind  they  were  perfect.  Though  she  was 
barely  fourteen  she  was  the  woman  of  that  circle  by 
the  magnetism  of  her  mouth.  When  we  all  met 
together  in  the  evening  all  that  went  on  in  some 
way  or  other  centred  about  her.  By  consent  the 
choice  of  what  game  should  be  played  was  left  to 
her  to  decide.  She  was  asked  if  it  was  not  time 
for  some  one  to  sing,  and  the  very  mistress  of  the 
household  referred  to  her  whether  we  should  have 
another  round  or  go  in  to  supper.  Of  course,  she 

16  —  241  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


always  decided  as  she  supposed  the  hostess  wished. 
At  supper,  if  there  was  a  delicacy  on  the  table  it 
was  invariably  offered  to  her.  The  eagerness  of 
the  elderly  gentlemen,  who  presumed  on  their  grey 
locks  and  conventional  harmlessness  to  press  their 
attentions  upon  her,  showed  who  was  the  most  at- 
tractive person  in  the  room.  Younger  men  feel  a 
certain  reserve,  and  do  not  reveal  their  inclinations 
before  a  crowd,  but  the  harmless  old  gentleman 
makes  no  secret  of  his  admiration.  She  managed 
them  all,  old  and  young,  with  unconscious  tact,  and 
never  left  the  ranks  of  the  other  ladies  as  a  crude 
flirt  would  have  done.  This  tact  and  way  of  mod- 
estly holding  back  when  so  many  would  have  pushed 
her  too  much  to  the  front  retained  for  her  the  good 
word  of  her  own  sex.  If  a  dance  was  proposed  it 
was  left  to  her  to  say  yes  or  no,  and  if  it  was  not 
too  late  the  answer  was  usually  in  the  affirmative. 
So  in  the  morning,  should  we  make  an  excursion 
to  some  view  or  pleasant  wood,  all  eyes  rested  upon 
her,  and  if  she  thought  it  fine  enough  away  we 
went. 

Her  features  were  rather  fine,  but  not  especially 
so ;  her  complexion  a  little  dusky,  eyes  grey,  and 
dark  hair  ;  her  figure  moderately  tall,  slender  but 
shapely.  She  was  always  dressed  well ;  a  certain 
taste  marked  her  in  everything.  Upon  introduc- 
tion no  one  would  have  thought  anything  of  her; 
—  242  — 


BEAUTY    IN    THE    C  O  UN  TR  Y2g>E^K 

they  would  have  said,  "  insignificant  —  plain ;  "  in 
half  an  hour,  "  different  to  most  girls  ;  "  in  an  hour, 
"  extremely  pleasant ; "  in  a  day,  "  a  singularly  at- 
tractive girl ;  "  and  so  on,  till  her  empire  was  es- 
tablished. It  was  not  the  features  —  it  was  the 
mouth,  the  curling  lips,  the  vivacity  and  life  that 
sparkled  in  them.  There  is  wine,  deep-coloured, 
strong,  but  smooth  at  the  surface.  There  is  cham- 
pagne with  its  richness  continually  rushing  to  the 
rim.  Her  lips  flowed  with  champagne.  It  re- 
quires a  clever  man  indeed  to  judge  of  men;  now 
how  could  so  young  and  inexperienced  a  creature 
distinguish  the  best  from  so  many  suitors  ? 


OUT  OF  DOORS  IN  FEBRUARY 


cawing  of  the  rooks  in  February 
shows   that   the   time   is  coming   when 
their  nests  will  be  re-occupied.     They 
^      resort  to  the  trees,  and  perch  above  the 


old  nests  to  indicate  their  rights  ;  for  in  the  rookery 
possession  is  the  law,  and  not  nine-tenths  of  it  only. 
In  the  slow  dull  cold  of  winter  even  these  noisy 
birds  are  quiet,  and  as  the  vast  flocks  pass  over, 
night  and  morning,  to  and  from  the  woods  in  which 
they  roost,  there  is  scarcely  a  sound.  Through 
the  mist  their  black  wings  advance  in  silence,  the 
jackdaws  with  them  are  chilled  into  unwonted 
quiet,  and  unless  you  chance  to  look  up  the  crowd 
may  go  over  unnoticed.  But  so  soon  as  the  waters 
begin  to  make  a  sound  in  February,  running  in  the 
ditches  and  splashing  over  stones,  the  rooks  com- 
mence the  speeches  and  conversations  which  will 
continue  till  late  into  the  following  autumn. 

The  general  idea  is  that  they  pair  in  February, 

but  there  are  some  reasons  for  thinking  that  the 

rooks,  in  fact,  choose  their  mates  at  the  end  of  the 

preceding  summer.     They  are  then  in  large  flocks, 

—  244  — 


5^  OUT    OF   DOORS   IN    FEBRUARY 

and  if  only  casually  glanced  at  appear  mixed  to- 
gether without  any  order  or  arrangement.  They 
move  on  the  ground  and  fly  in  the  air  so  close,  one 
beside  the  other,  that  at  the  first  glance  or  so  you 
cannot  distinguish  them  apart.  Yet  if  you  should 
be  lingering  along  the  by-ways  of  the  fields  as 
the  acorns  fall,  and  the  leaves  come  rustling  down 
in  the  warm  sunny  autumn  afternoons,  and  keep 
an  observant  eye  upon  the  rooks  in  the  trees,  or  on 
the  fresh-turned  furrows,  they  will  be  seen  to  act 
in  couples.  On  the  ground  couples  alight  near 
each  other,  on  the  trees  they  perch  near  each  other, 
and  in  the  air  fly  side  by  side.  Like  soldiers  each 
has  his  comrade.  Wedged  in  the  ranks  every  man 
looks  like  his  fellow,  and  there  seems  no  tie  between 
them  but  a  common  discipline.  Intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  barrack  or  camp  life  would  show  that 
every  one  had  his  friend.  There  is  also  the  mess, 
or  companionship  of  half  a  dozen,  a  dozen,  or 
more,  and  something  like  this  exists  part  of  the 
year  in  the  armies  of  the  rooks.  After  the  nest 
time  is  over  they  flock  together,  and  each  family 
of  three  or  four  flies  in  concert.  Later  on  they 
apparently  choose  their  own  particular  friends,  that 
is,  the  young  birds  do  so.  All  through  the  winter 
after,  say,  October,  these  pairs  keep  together, 
though  lost  in  the  general  mass  to  the  passing 
spectator.  If  you  alarm  them  while  feeding  on 
—  245  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


the  ground  in  winter,  supposing  you  have  not  got 
a  gun,  they  merely  rise  up  to  the  nearest  tree,  and 
it  may  then  be  observed  that  they  do  this  in  pairs. 
One  perches  on  4  branch  and  a  second  comes  to 
him.  When  February  arrives,  and  they  resort  to 
the  nests  to  look  after  or  seize  on  the  property 
there,  they  are  in  fact  already  paired,  though  the 
almanacs  put  down  St.  Valentine's  day  as  the  date 
of  courtship. 

There  is  very  often  a  warm  interval  in  February, 
sometimes  a  few  days  earlier  and  sometimes  later, 
but  as  a  rule  it  happens  that  a  week  or  so  of  mild 
sunny  weather  occurs  about  this  time.  Released 
from  the  grip  of  the  frost,  the  streams  trickle  forth 
from  the  fields  and  pour  into  the  ditches,  so  that 
while  walking  along  the  footpath  there  is  a  mur- 
mur all  around  coming  from  the  rush  of  water. 
The  murmur  of  the  poets  is  indeed  louder  in  Feb- 
ruary than  in  the  more  pleasant  days  of  summer, 
for  then  the  growth  of  aquatic  grasses  checks  the 
flow  and  stills  it,  whilst  in  February,  every  stone, 
or  flint,  or  lump  of  chalk  divides  the  current  and 
causes  a  vibration.  With  this  murmur  of  water, 
and  mild  time,  the  rooks  caw  incessantly,  and  the 
birds  at  large  essay  to  utter  their  welcome  of  the 
sun.  The  wet  furrows  reflect  the  rays  so  that 
the  dark  earth  gleams,  and  in  the  slight  mist  that 
stays  farther  away  the  light  pauses  and  fills  the 
-246- 


OF    DOORS   IN    FEBRUARY 

vapour  with  radiance.  Through  this  luminous 
mist  the  larks  race  after  each  other  twittering,  and 
as  they  turn  aside,  swerving  in  their  swift  flight, 
their  white  breasts  appear  for  a  moment.  As 
while  standing  by  a  pool  the  fishes  come  into 
sight,  emerging  as  they  swim  round  from  the 
shadow  of  the  deeper  water,  so  the  larks  dart  over 
the  low  hedge,  and  through  the  mist,  and  pass 
before  you,  and  are  gone  again.  All  at  once  one 
checks  his  pursuit,  forgets  the  immediate  object, 
and  rises,  singing  as  he  soars.  The  notes  fall  from 
the  air  over  the  dark  wet  earth,  over  the  dank  grass, 
and  broken  withered  fern  of  the  hedge,  and  listen- 
ing to  them  it  seems  for  a  moment  spring.  There 
is  sunshine  in  the  song :  the  lark  and  the  light  are 
one.  He  gives  us  a  few  minutes  of  summer  in 
February  days.  In  May  he  rises  before  as  yet  the 
dawn  is  come,  and  the  sunrise  flows  down  to  us 
under  through  his  notes.  On  his  breast,  high 
above  the  earth,  the  first  rays  fall  as  the  rim  of  the 
sun  edges  up  at  the  eastward  hill.  The  lark  and 
the  light  are  as  one,  and  wherever  he  glides  over 
the  wet  furrows  the  glint  of  the  sun  goes  with  him. 
Anon  alighting  he  runs  between  the  lines  of  the 
green  corn.  In  hot  summer,  when  the  open  hill- 
side is  burned  with  bright  light,  the  larks  are  then 
singing  and  soaring.  Stepping  up  the  hill  labori- 
ously, suddenly  a  lark  starts  into  the  light  and 

__247_ 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


pours  forth  a  rain  of  unwearied  notes  overhead. 
With  bright  light,  and  sunshine,  and  sunrise,  and 
blue  skies  the  bird  is  so  associated  in  the  mind, 
that  even  to  see  him  in  the  frosty  days  of  win- 
ter, at  least  assures  us  that  summer  will  certainly 
return. 

Ought  not  winter,  in  allegorical  designs,  the 
rather  to  be  represented  with  such  things  that 
might  suggest  hope  than  such  as  convey  a  cold  and 
grim  despair  ?  The  withered  leaf,  the  snowflake, 
the  hedging  bill  that  cuts  and  destroys,  why  these  ? 
Why  not  rather  the  dear  larks  for  one  ?  They  fly 
in  flocks,  and  amid  the  white  expanse  of  snow  (in 
the  south)  their  pleasant  twitter  or  call  is  heard  as 
they  sweep  along  seeking  some  grassy  spot  cleared 
by  the  wind.  The  lark,  the  bird  of  the  light,  is 
there  in  the  bitter  short  days.  Put  the  lark  then 
for  winter,  a  sign  of  hope,  a  certainty  of  summer. 
Put,  too,  the  sheathed  bud,  for  if  you  search  the 
hedge  you  will  find  the  buds  there,  on  tree  and 
bush,  carefully  wrapped  around  with  the  case  which 
protects  them  as  a  cloak.  Put,  too,  the  sharp 
needles  of  the  green  corn  ;  let  the  wind  clear  it  of 
snow  a  little  way,  and  show  that  under  cold  clod 
and  colder  snow  the  green  thing  pushes  up,  know- 
ing that  summer  must  come.  Nothing  despairs 
but  man.  Set  the  sharp  curve  of  the  white  new 
moon  in  the  sky :  she  is  white  in  true  frost,  and 


OUT   OF   DOORS   IN    FEBRUARY  2E^K 

yellow  a  little  if  it  is  devising  change.  Set  the 
new  moon  as  something  that  symbols  an  increase. 
Set  the  shepherd's  crook  in  a  corner  as  a  token 
that  the  flocks  are  already  enlarged  in  number. 
The  shepherd  is  the  symbolic  man  of  the  hardest 
winter  time.  His  work  is  never  more  important 
than  then.  Those  that  only  roam  the  fields  when 
they  are  pleasant  in  May,  see  the  lambs  at  play  in 
the  meadow,  and  naturally  think  of  lambs  and  May 
flowers.  But  the  lamb  was  born  in  the  adversity 
of  snow.  Or  you  might  set  the  morning  star,  for 
it  burns  and  burns  and  glitters  in  the  winter  dawn, 
and  throws  forth  beams  like  those  of  metal  con- 
sumed in  oxygen.  There  is  nought  that  I  know 
by  comparison  with  which  I  might  indicate  the 
glory  of  the  morning  star,  while  yet  the  dark  night 
hides  in  the  hollows.  The  lamb  is  born  in  the 
fold.  The  morning  star  glitters  in  the  sky.  The 
bud  is  alive  in  its  sheath ;  the  green  corn  under  the 
snow ;  the  lark  twitters  as  he  passes.  Now  these 
to  me  are  the  allegory  of  winter. 

These  mild  hours  in  February  check  the  hold 
which  winter  has  been  gaining,  and,  as  it  were, 
tear  his  claws  out  of  the  earth,  their  prey.  If  it 
has  not  been  so  bitter  previously,  when  this  Gulf 
stream  or  current  of  warmer  air  enters  the  expanse 
it  may  bring  forth  a  butterfly  and  tenderly  woo  the 
first  violet  into  flower.  But  this  depends  on  its 
-249  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

having  been  only  moderately  cold  before,  and  also 
upon  the  stratum,  whether  it  is  backward  clay,  or 
forward  gravel  and  sand.  Spring  dates  are  quite 
different  according  to  the  locality,  and  when  violets 
may  be  found  in*  one  district,  in  another  there  is 
hardly  a  woodbine-leaf  out.  The  border  line  may 
be  traced,  and  is  occasionally  so  narrow,  one  may 
cross  over  it  almost  at  a  step.  It  would  sometimes 
seem  as  if  even  the  nut-tree  bushes  bore  larger 
and  finer  nuts  on  the  warmer  soil,  and  that  they 
ripened  quicker.  Any  curious  in  the  first  of  things, 
whether  it  be  a  leaf,  or  flower,  or  a  bird,  should 
bear  this  in  mind,  and  not  be  discouraged  because 
he  hears  some  one  else  has  already  discovered  or 
heard  something. 

A  little  note  taken  now  at  this  bare  time  of  the 
kind  of  earth  may  lead  to  an  understanding  of  the 
district.  It  is  plain  where  the  plough  has  turned 
it,  where  the  rabbits  have  burrowed  and  thrown  it 
out,  where  a  tree  has  been  felled  by  the  gales,  by 
the  brook  where  the  bank  is  worn  away,  or  by  the 
sediment  at  the  shallow  places.  Before  the  grass 
and  weeds,  and  corn  and  flowers  have  hidden  it, 
the  character  of  the  soil  is  evident  at  these  natural 
sections  without  the  aid  of  a  spade.  Going  slowly 
along  the  footpath  —  indeed  you  cannot  go  fast  in 
moist  February  —  it  is  a  good  time  to  select  the 
places  and  map  them  out  where  herbs  and  flowers 


OF   DOORS   IN 

will  most  likely  come  first.  All  the  autumn  lies 
prone  on  the  ground.  Dead  dark  leaves,  some 
washed  to  their  woody  frames,  short  grey  stalks, 
some  few  decayed  hulls  of  hedge  fruit,  and  among 
these  the  mars  or  stocks  of  the  plants  that  do  not 
die  away,  but  lie  as  it  were  on  the  surface  waiting. 
Here  the  strong  teazle  will  presently  stand  high  ; 
here  the  ground-ivy  will  dot  the  mound  with  bluish- 
purple.  But  it  will  be  necessary  to  walk  slowly 
to  find  the  ground-ivy  flowers  under  the  cover  of 
the  briers.  These  bushes  will  be  a  likely  place  for 
a  blackbird's  nest ;  this  thick  close  hawthorn  for  a 
bullfinch ;  these  bramble  thickets  with  remnants 
of  old  nettle  stalks  will  be  frequented  by  the  white- 
throat  after  a  while.  The  hedge  is  now  but  a 
lattice-work  which  will  before  long  be  hung  with 
green.  Now  it  can  be  seen  through,  and  now  is 
the  time  to  arrange  for  future  discovery.  In  May 
everything  will  be  hidden,  and  unless  the  most 
promising  places  are  selected  beforehand,  it  will 
not  be  easy  to  search  them  out.  The  broad  ditch 
will  be  arched  over,  the  plants  rising  on  the  mound 
will  meet  the  green  boughs  drooping,  and  all  the 
vacancy  will  be  filled.  But  having  observed  the 
spot  in  winter,  you  can  almost  make  certain  of 
success  in  spring. 

It  is  this  previous  knowledge  which  invests  those 
who  are  always  on  the  spot,  those  who  work  much 
—  251  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


in  the  fields  or  have  the  care  of  woods,  with  their 
apparent  prescience.  They  lead  the  newcomer  to 
a  hedge,  or  the  corner  of  a  copse,  or  a  bend  of  the 
brook,  announcing  beforehand  that  they  feel  as- 
sured something  will  be  found  there ;  and  so  it  is. 
This,  too,  is  one  reason  why  a  fixed  observer 
usually  sees  more  than  one  who  rambles  a  great 
deal  and  covers  ten  times  the  space.  The  fixed 
observer  who  hardly  goes  a  mile  from  home  is  like 
the  man  who  sits  still  by  the  edge  of  a  crowd,  and 
by-and-by  his  lost  companion  returns  to  him.  To 
walk  about  in  search  of  persons  in  a  crowd  is  well 
known  to  be  the  worst  way  of  recovering  them. 
Sit  still  and  they  will  often  come  by.  In  a  far 
more  certain  manner  this  is  the  case  with  birds 
and  animals.  They  all  come  back.  During  a 
twelvemonth  probably  every  creature  would  pass 
over  a  given  locality  :  every  creature  that  is  not 
confined  to  certain  places.  The  whole  army  of  the 
woods  and  hedges  marches  across  a  single  farm 
in  twelve  months.  A  single  tree  —  especially  an 
old  tree  —  is  visited  by  four-fifths  of  the  birds  that 
ever  perch  in  the  course  of  that  period.  Every 
year,  too,  brings  something  fresh,  and  adds  new 
visitors  to  the  list.  Even  the  wild  sea  birds  are 
found  inland,  and  some  that  scarce  seem  able  to  fly 
at  all  are  cast  far  ashore  by  the  gales.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  believe  that  one  would  not  see  more  by 


OF   DOORS   IN    FEBRUARY  SE^a* 

extending  the  journey,  but,  in  fact,  experience 
proves  that  the  longer  a  single  locality  is  studied 
the  more  is  found  in  it.  But  you  should  know  the 
places  in  winter  as  well  as  in  tempting  summer, 
when  song  and  shade  and  colour  attract  every  one 
to  the  field.  You  should  face  the  mire  and  slippery 
path.  Nature  yields  nothing  to  the  sybarite.  The 
meadow  glows  with  buttercups  in  spring,  the  hedges 
are  green,  the  woods  lovely ;  but  these  are  not  to 
be  enjoyed  in  their  full  significance  unless  you 
have  traversed  the  same  places  when  bare,  and 
have  watched  the  slow  fulfilment  of  the  flowers. 

The  moist  leaves  that  remain  upon  the  mounds 
do  not  rustle,  and  the  thrush  moves  among  them 
unheard.  The  sunshine  may  bring  out  a  rabbit, 
feeding  along  the  slope  of  the  mound,  following 
the  paths  or  runs.  He  picks  his  way,  he  does  not 
like  wet.  Though  out  at  night  in  the  dewy  grass 
of  summer,  in  the  rain-soaked  grass  of  winter,  and 
living  all  his  life  in  the  earth,  often  damp  nearly  to 
his  burrows,  no  time,  and  no  succession  of  genera- 
tions can  make  him  like  wet.  He  endures  it,  but 
he  picks  his  way  round  the  dead  fern  and  the 
decayed  leaves.  He  sits  in  the  bunches  of  long 
grass,  but  he  does  not  like  the  drops  of  rain  or  dew 
on  it  to  touch  him.  Water  lays  his  fur  close,  and 
mats  it,  instead  of  running  off  and  leaving  him 
sleek.  As  he  hops  a  little  way  at  a  time  on  the 
—  253  — 


THE     OPEN     AIR 


mound  he  chooses  his  route  almost  as  we  pick  ours 
in  the  mud  and  pools  of  February.  By  the  shore 
of  the  ditch  there  still  stand  a  few  dry,  dead  dock 
stems,  with  some  dry  reddish-brown  seed  adhering. 
Some  dry  brown'"nettle  stalks  remain ;  some  gray 
and  broken  thistles  ;  some  teazles  leaning  on  the 
bushes.  The  power  of  winter  has  reached  its 
utmost  now,  and  can  go  no  farther.  These  bines 
which  still  hang  in  the  bushes  are  those  of  the 
greater  bindweed,  and  will  be  used  in  a  month  or 
so  by  many  birds  as  conveniently  curved  to  fit 
about  their  nests.  The  stem  of  wild  clematis, 
grey  and  bowed,  could  scarcely  look  more  dead. 
Fibres  are  peeling  from  it,  they  come  off  at  the 
touch  of  the  fingers.  The  few  brown  feathers 
that  perhaps  still  adhere  where  the  flowers  once 
were  are  stained  and  discoloured  by  the  beating  of 
the  rain.  It  is  not  dead  :  it  will  flourish  again  ere 
long.  It  is  the  sturdiest  of  creepers,  facing  the 
ferocious  winds  of  the  hills,  the  tremendous  rains 
that  blow  up  from  the  sea,  and  bitter  frost,  if  only 
it  can  get  its  roots  into  soil  that  suits  it.  In  some 
places  it  takes  the  place  of  the  hedge  proper  and 
becomes  itself  the  hedge.  Many  of  the  trunks  of 
the  elms  are  swathed  in  minute  green  vegetation 
which  has  flourished  in  the  winter,  as  the  clematis 
will  in  the  summer.  Of  all,  the  brambles  bear 
the  wild  works  of  winter  best.  Given  only  a  little 


OUT    OF    DOORS   IN    FEBRUARY 

shelter,  in  the  corner  of  the  hedges  or  under  trees 
and  copses  they  retain  green  leaves  till  the  buds 
burst  again.  The  frosts  tint  them  in  autumn  with 
crimson,  but  not  all  turn  colour  or  fall.  The 
brambles  are  the  bowers  of  the  birds ;  in  these 
still  leafy  bowers  they  do  the  courting  of  the  spring, 
aud  under  the  brambles  the  earliest  arum,  and 
cleaver,  or  avens,  push  up.  Round  about  them 
the  first  white  nettle  flowers,  not  long  now ;  latest 
too,  in  the  autumn.  The  white  nettle  sometimes 
blooms  so  soon  (always  according  to  locality),  and 
again  so  late,  that  there  seems  but  a  brief  interval 
between,  as  if  it  flowered  nearly  all  the  year  round. 
So  the  berries  on  the  holly  if  let  alone  often  stay 
till  summer  is  in,  and  new  berries  begin  to  appear 
shortly  afterwards.  The  ivy,  too,  bears  its  berries 
far  into  the  summer.  Perhaps  if  the  country  be 
taken  at  large  there  is  never  a  time  when  there  is 
not  a  flower  of  some  kind  out,  in  this  or  that  warm 
southern  nook.  The  sun  never  sets,  nor  do  the 
flowers  ever  die.  There  is  life  always,  even  in  the 
dry  fir-cone  that  looks  so  brown  and  sapless. 

The  path  crosses  the  uplands  where  the  lapwings 
stand  on  the  parallel  ridges  of  the  ploughed  field 
like  a  drilled  company  ;  if  they  rise  they  wheel  as 
one,  and  in  the  twilight  move  across  the  fields  in 
bands,  invisible  as  they  sweep  near  the  ground,  but 
seen  against  the  sky  in  rising  over  the  trees  and 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


the  hedges.  There  is  a  plantation  of  fir  and  ash 
on  the  slope,  and  a  narrow  waggon-way  enters  it, 
and  seems  to  lose  itself  in  the  wood.  Always 
approach  this  spot  quietly,  for  whatever  is  in  the 
wood  is  sure  at  so*me  time  or  other  to  come  to  the 
open  space  of  the  track.  Wood-pigeons,  pheasants, 
squirrels,  magpies,  hares,  everything  feathered  or 
furred,  down  to  the  mole,  is  sure  to  seek  the  open 
way.  Butterflies  flutter  through  the  copse  by  it  in 
summer,  just  as  you  or  I  might  use  the  passage 
between  the  trees.  Towards  the  evening  the 
partridges  may  run  through  to  join  their  friends 
before  roost-time  on  the  ground.  Or  you  may 
see  a  covey  there  now  and  then,  creeping  slowly 
with  humped  backs,  and  at  a  distance  not  unlike 
hedgehogs  in  their  motions.  The  spot  therefore 
should  be  approached  with  care;  if  it  is  only  a 
thrush  out  it  is  a  pleasure  to  see  him  at  his  ease 
and,  as  he  deems,  unobserved.  If  a  bird  or  animal 
thinks  itself  noticed  it  seldom  does  much,  some 
will  cease  singing  immediately  they  are  looked  at. 
The  day  is  perceptibly  longer  already.  As  the  sun 
goes  down,  the  western  sky  often  takes  a  lovely 
green  tint  in  this  month,  and  one  stays  to  look  at 
it,  forgetting  the  dark  and  miry  way  homewards. 
I  think  the  moments  when  we  forget  the  mire  of 
the  world  are  the  most  precious.  After  a  while  the 
green  corn  rises  higher  out  of  the  rude  earth. 


OUT   OF   DOORS   IN    FEBRUARY*^ 


Pure  colour  almost  always  gives  the  idea  of  fire, 
or  rather  it  is  perhaps  as  if  a  light  shone  through 
as  well  as  colour  itself.  The  fresh  green  blade  of 
corn  is  like  this,  so  pellucid,  so  clear  and  pure  in 
its  green  as  to  seem  to  shine  with  colour.  It  is 
not  brilliant,  —  not  a  surface  gleam  or  an  enamel, 
—  it  is  stained  through.  Beside  the  moist  clods 
the  slender  flags  arise  filled  with  the  sweetness  of 
the  earth.  Out  of  the  darkness  under  —  that 
darkness  which  knows  no  day  save  when  the 
ploughshare  opens  its  chinks  — they  have  come  to 
the  light.  To  the  light  they  have  brought  a  colour 
which  will  attract  the  sunbeams  from  now  till 
harvest.  They  fall  more  pleasantly  on  the  corn, 
toned,  as  if  they  mingled  with  it.  Seldom  do  we 
realise  that  the  world  is  practically  no  thicker  to 
us  than  the  print  of  our  footsteps  on  the  path. 
Upon  that  surface  we  walk  and  act  our  comedy  of 
life,  and  what  is  beneath  is  nothing  to  us.  But  it 
is  out  from  that  under-world,  from  the  dead  and 
the  unknown,  from  the  cold  moist  ground,  that 
these  green  blades  have  sprung.  Yonder  a  steam- 
plough  pants  up  the  hill,  groaning  with  its  own 
strength,  yet  all  that  strength  and  might  of  wheels, 
and  piston,  and  chains,  cannot  drag  from  the  earth 
one  single  blade  like  these.  Force  cannot  make 
it ;  it  must  grow  —  an  easy  word  to  speak  or  write, 
in  fact  full  of  potency.  It  is  this  mystery  of 

17  —257  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


growth  and  life,  of  beauty,  and  sweetness,  and 
colour,  starting  forth  from  the  clods  that  gives  the 
corn  its  power  over  me.  Somehow  I  identify  my- 
self with  it;  I  live  again  as  I  see  it.  Year  by 
year  it  is  the  same,  and  when  I  see  it  I  feel  that  I 
have  once  more  entered  on  a  new  life.  And  I 
think  the  spring,  with  its  green  corn,  its  violets, 
and  hawthorn  leaves,  and  increasing  song,  grows 
yearly  dearer  and  more  dear  to  this  our  ancient 
earth.  So  many  centuries  have  flown  !  Now  it  is 
the  manner  with  all  natural  things  to  gather  as  it 
were  by  smallest  particles.  The  merest  grain  of 
sand  drifts  unseen  into  a  crevice,  and  by-and-by 
another;  after  a  while  there  is  a  heap  ;  a  century 
and  it  is  a  mound,  and  then  every  one  observes 
and  comments  on  it.  Time  itself  has  gone  on 
like  this ;  the  years  have  accumulated,  first  in 
drifts,  then  in  heaps,  and  now  a  vast  mound,  to 
which  the  mountains  are  knolls,  rises  up  and 
overshadows  us.  Time  lies  heavy  on  the  world. 
The  old,  old  earth  is  glad  to  turn  from  the  cark 
and  care  of  drifted  centuries  to  the  first  sweet 
blades  of  green. 

There  is  sunshine  to-day  after  rain,  and  every 
lark  is  singing.  Across  the  vale  a  broad  cloud- 
shadow  descends  the  hillside,  is  lost  in  the  hollow, 
and  presently,  without  warning,  slips  over  the  edge, 
coming  swiftly  along  the  green  tips.  The  sunshine 
_aS8- 


OF   DOORS  IN    FEBRUARY 

follows  —  the  warmer  for  its  momentary  absence. 
Far,  far  down  in  a  grassy  coomb  stands  a  solitary 
cornrick,  conical  roofed,  casting  a  lonely  shadow 
—  marked  because  so  solitary,  and  beyond  it  on 
the  rising  slope  is  a  brown  copse.  The  leafless 
branches  take  a  brown  tint  in  the  sunlight ;  on  the 
summit  above  there  is  furze  ;  then  more  hill  lines 
drawn  against  the  sky.  In  the  tops  of  the  dark 
pines  at  the  corner  of  the  copse,  could  the  glance 
sustain  itself  to  see  them,  there  are  finches  warm- 
ing themselves  in  the  sunbeams.  The  thick  nee- 
dles shelter  them  from  the  current  of  air,  and  the 
sky  is  bluer  above  the  pines.  Their  hearts  are  full 
already  of  the  happy  days  to  come,  when  the  moss 
yonder  by  the  beech,  and  the  lichen  on  the  fir 
trunk,  and  the  loose  fibres  caught  in  the  fork  of 
an  unbending  bough,  shall  furnish  forth  a  sufficient 
mansion  for  their  young.  Another  broad  cloud- 
shadow,  and  another  warm  embrace  of  sunlight. 
All  the  serried  ranks  of  the  green  corn  bow  at  the 
word  of  command  as  the  wind  rushes  over  them. 

There  is  largeness  and  freedom  here.  Broad  as 
the  down  and  free  as  the  wind,  the  thought  can 
roam  high  over  the  narrow  roofs  in  the  vale. 
Nature  has  affixed  no  bounds  to  thought.  All 
the  palings,  and  walls,  and  crooked  fences  deep 
down  yonder  are  artificial.  The  fetters  and  tra- 
ditions, the  routine,  the  dull  roundabout  which 
—  259  — 


ISE     THE    OPEN    AIR 


deadens  the  spirit  like  the  cold  moist  earth,  are  the 
merest  nothings.  Here  it  is  easy  with  the  physical 
eye  to  look  over  the  highest  roof.  The  moment 
the  eye  of  the  mind  is  filled  with  the  beauty  of 
things  natural  an  equal  freedom  and  width  of  view 
come  to  it.  Step  aside  from  the  trodden  footpath 
of  personal  experience,  throwing  away  the  petty 
cynicism  born  of  petty  hopes  disappointed.  Step 
out  upon  the  broad  down  beside  the  green  corn, 
and  let  its  freshness  become  part  of  life. 

The  wind  passes,  and  it  bends  —  let  the  wind, 
too,  pass  over  the  spirit.  From  the  cloud-shadow 
it  emerges  to  the  sunshine  —  let  the  heart  come  out 
from  the  shadow  of  roofs  to  the  open  glow  of  the 
sky.  High  above,  the  songs  of  the  larks  fall  as 
rain  —  receive  it  with  open  hands.  Pure  is  the 
colour  of  the  green  flags,  the  slender-pointed  blades 
—  let  the  thought  be  pure  as  the  light  that  shines 
through  that  colour.  Broad  are  the  downs  and 
open  the  aspect — gather  the  breadth  and  largeness 
of  view.  Never  can  that  view  be  wide  enough  and 
large  enough,  there  will  always  be  room  to  aim 
higher.  As  the  air  of  the  hills  enriches  the  blood, 
so  let  the  presence  of  these  beautiful  things  enrich 
the  inner  sense.  One  memory  of  the  green  corn, 
fresh  beneath  the  sun  and  wind,  will  lift  up  the 
heart  from  the  clods. 


HAUNTS   OF  THE   LAPWING 


I.   WINTER 

lOMING  like  a  white  wall  the  rain 
reaches  me,  and  in  an  instant  every- 
thing is  gone  from  sight  that  is  more 
than  ten  yards  distant.  The  narrow 
upland  road  is  beaten  to  a  darker  hue,  and  two 
runnels  of  water  rush  along  at  the  sides,  where, 
when  the  chalk-laden  streamlets  dry,  blue  splinters 
of  flint  will  be  exposed  in  the  channels.  For  a 
moment  the  air  seems  driven  away  by  the  sudden 
pressure,  and  I  catch  my  breath  and  stand  still  with 
one  shoulder  forward  to  receive  the  blow.  Hiss, 
the  land  shudders  under  the  cold  onslaught ;  hiss, 
and  on  the  blast  goes,  and  the  sound  with  it,  for 
the  very  fury  of  the  rain,  after  the  first  second, 
drowns  its  own  noise.  There  is  not  a  single 
creature  visible,  the  low  and  stunted  hedgerows, 
bare  of  leaf,  could  conceal  nothing;  the  rain  passes 
straight  through  to  the  ground.  Crooked  and 
gnarled,  the  bushes  are  locked  together  as  if  in  no 
other  way  could  they  hold  themselves  against  the 
—  a6i  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

gales.  Such  little  grass  as  there  is  on  the  mounds 
is  thin  and  short,  and  could  not  hide  a  mouse. 
There  is  no  finch,  sparrow,  thrush,  blackbird.  As 
the  wave  of  rain,  passes  over  and  leaves  a  hollow 
between  the  waters,  that  which  has  gone  and  that 
to  come,  the  ploughed  lands  on  either  side  are  seen 
to  be  equally  bare.  In  furrows  full  of  water,  a  hare 
would  not  sit,  nor  partridge  run  ;  the  larks,  the 
patient  larks  which  endure  almost  everything,  even 
they  have  gone.  Furrow  on  furrow  with  flints  dotted 
on  their  slopes,  and  chalk  lumps,  that  is  all.  The 
cold  earth  gives  no  sweet  petal  of  flower,  nor  can 
any  bud  of  thought  or  bloom  of  imagination  start 
forth  in  the  mind.  But  step  by  step,  forcing  a  way 
through  the  rain  and  over  the  ridge,  I  find  a  small 
and  stunted  copse  down  in  the  next  hollow.  It  is 
rather  a  wide  hedge  than  a  copse,  and  stands  by  the 
road  in  the  corner  of  a  field.  The  boughs  are  bare; 
still  they  break  the  storm,  and  it  is  a  relief  to  wait 
a  while  there  and  rest.  After  a  minute  or  so  the  eye 
gets  accustomed  to  the  branches  and  finds  a  line  of 
sight  through  the  narrow  end  of  the  copse.  Within 
twenty  yards — just  outside  the  copse — there  are  a 
number  of  lapwings,  dispersed  about  the  furrows. 
One  runs  a  few  feet  forward  and  picks  something 
from  the  ground;  another  runs  in  the  same  manner 
to  one  side;  a  third  rushes  in  still  a  third  direction. 
Their  crests,  their  green-tinted  wings,  and  white 


OF    THE    LAPWING 

breasts  are  not  disarranged  by  the  torrent.  Some- 
thing in  the  style  of  the  birds  recalls  the  wagtail, 
though  they  are  so  much  larger.  Beyond  these 
are  half  a  dozen  more,  and  in  a  straggling  line 
others  extend  out  into  the  field.  They  have  found 
some  slight  shelter  here  from  the  sweeping  of  the 
rain  and  wind,  and  are  not  obliged  to  face  it  as  in 
the  open.  Minutely  searching  every  clod,  they 
gather  their  food  in  imperceptible  items  from  the 
surface. 

Sodden  leaves  lie  in  the  furrows  along  the  side 
of  the  copse;  broken  and  decaying  burdocks  still 
uphold  their  jagged  stems,  but  will  be  soaked  away 
by  degrees ;  dank  grasses  droop  outwards ;  the  red 
seed  of  a  dock  is  all  that  remains  of  the  berries  and 
fruit,  the  seeds  and  grain  of  autumn.  Like  the 
hedge,  the  copse  is  vacant.  Nothing  moves  within, 
watch  as  carefully  as  I  may.  The  boughs  are 
blackened  by  wet  and  would  touch  cold.  From 
the  grasses  to  the  branches  there  is  nothing  any  one 
would  like  to  handle,  and  I  stand  apart  even  from 
the  bush  that  keeps  away  the  rain.  The  green 
plovers  are  the  only  things  of  life  that  save  the 
earth  from  utter  loneliness.  Heavily  as  the  rain 
may  fall,  cold  as  the  saturated  wind  may  blow,  the 
plovers  remind  us  of  the  beauty  of  shape,  coloifr, 
and  animation.  They  seem  too  slender  to  withstand 
the  blast — they  should  have  gone  with  the  swallows 
-263- 


g^gaE^g     THE    OPEN    AIR 

—  too  delicate  for  these  rude  hours;  yet  they  alone 
face  them. 

Once  more  the  wave  of  rain  has  passed,  and 
yonder  the  hills  >  appear ;  these  are  but  uplands. 
The  nearest  and  highest  has  a  green  rampart,  visible 
for  a  moment  against  the  dark  sky,  and  then  again 
wrapped  in  a  toga  of  misty  cloud.  So  the  chilled 
Roman  drew  his  toga  around  him  in  ancient  days 
as  from  that  spot  he  looked  wistfully  southwards 
and  thought  of  Italy.  \Vee-ah-wee!  Some  chance 
movement  has  been  noticed  by  the  nearest  bird, 
and  away  they  go  at  once  as  if  with  the  same  wings, 
sweeping  overhead,  then  to  the  right,  then  to  the 
left,  and  then  back  again,  till  at  last  lost  in  the 
coming  shower.  After  they  have  thus  vibrated  to 
and  fro  long  enough,  like  a  pendulum  coming  to 
rest,  they  will  alight  in  the  open  field  on  the  ridge 
behind.  There  in  drilled  ranks,  well  closed  together, 
all  facing  the  same  way,  they  will  stand  for  hours. 
Let  us  go  also  and  let  the  shower  conceal  them. 
Another  time  my  path  leads  over  the  hills. 

It  is  afternoon,  which  in  winter  is  evening.  The 
sward  of  the  down  is  dry  under  foot,  but  hard,  and 
does  not  lift  the  instep  with  the  springy  feel  of 
summer.  The  sky  is  gone,  it  is  not  clouded,  it  is 
swathed  in  gloom.  Upwards  the  still  air  thickens, 
and  there  is  no  arch  or  vault  of  heaven.  Formless 
and  vague,  it  seems  some  vast  shadow  descending. 
-z64- 


HAUNTS    OF    THE    L  A  P  WIN  G  XE^tX 

The  sun  has  disappeared,  and  the  light  there  still 
is,  is  left  in  the  atmosphere  enclosed  by  the  gloomy 
mist  as  pools  are  left  by  a  receding  tide.  Through 
the  sand  the  water  slips,  and  through  the  mist  the 
light  glides  away.  Nearer  comes  the  formless 
shadow,  and  the  visible  earth  grows  smaller.  The 
path  has  faded,  and  there  are  no  means  on  the  open 
downs  of  knowing  whether  the  direction  pursued  is 
right  or  wrong,  till  a  boulder  (which  is  a  landmark) 
is  perceived.  Thence  the  way  is  down  the  slope, 
the  last  and  limit  of  the  hills  there.  It  is  a  rough 
descent,  the  paths  worn  by  sheep  may  at  any 
moment  cause  a  stumble.  At  the  foot  is  a  waggon- 
track  beside  a  low  hedge,  enclosing  the  first  arable 
field.  The  hedge  is  a  guide,  but  the  ruts  are  deep, 
and  it  still  needs  slow  and  careful  walking.  Wee- 
ah-wee !  Up  from  the  dusky  surface  of  the  arable 
field  springs  a  plover,  and  the  notes  are  immediately 
repeated  by  another.  They  can  just  be  seen  as 
darker  bodies  against  the  shadow  as  they  fly  over- 
head. Wee-ah-wee  !  The  sound  grows  fainter  as 
they  fetch  a  longer  circle  in  the  gloom. 

There  is  another  winter  resort  of  plovers  in  the 
valley  where  a  barren  waste  was  ploughed  some 
years  ago.  A  few  furze  bushes  still  stand  in  the 
hedges  about  it,  and  the  corners  are  full  of  rushes. 
Not  all  the  grubbing  of  furze  and  bushes,  the  deep 
ploughing  and  draining,  has  succeeded  in  rendering 
-265- 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

the  place  fertile  like  the  adjacent  fields.  The  char- 
acter of  a  marsh  adheres  to  it  still.  So  long  as 
there  is  a  crop,  the  lapwings  keep  away,  but  as 
soon  as  the  plough^  turn  up  the  ground  in  autumn 
they  return.  The  place  lies  low,  and  level  with 
the  waters  in  the  ponds  and  streamlets.  A  mist 
hangs  about  it  in  the  evening,  and  even  when  there 
is  none,  there  is  a  distinct  difference  in  the  at- 
mosphere while  passing  it.  From  their  hereditary 
home  the  lapwings  cannot  be  entirely  driven  away. 
Out  of  the  mist  comes  their  plaintive  cry;  they  are 
hidden,  and  their  exact  locality  is  not  to  be  discovr 
ered.  Where  winter  rules  most  ruthlessly,  where 
darkness  is  deepest  in  daylight,  there  the  slender 
plovers  stay  undaunted. 

II.    SPRING 

A  SOFT  sound  of  water  moving  among  thousands 
of  grass-blades  —  to  the  hearing  it  is  as  the  sweet- 
ness of  spring  air  to  the  scent.  It  is  so  faint  and 
so  diffused  that  the  exact  spot  whence  it  issues  can- 
not be  discerned,  yet  it  is  distinct,  and  my  footsteps 
are  slower  as  I  listen.  Yonder,  in  the  corners  of 
the  mead,  the  atmosphere  is  full  of  some  ethereal 
vapour.  The  sunshine  stays  in  the  air  there,  as  if 
the  green  hedges  held  the  wind  from  brushing  it 
away.  Low  and  plaintive  come  the  notes  of  a  lap- 
wing ;  the  same  notes,  but  tender  with  love. 
—  166  — 


3SHAUNTS    OF    THE    LAPWING^ 


On  this  side,  by  the  hedge,  the  ground  is  a  little 
higher  and  dry,  hung  over  with  the  lengthy  boughs 
of  an  oak,  which  give  some  shade.  I  always  feel 
a  sense  of  regret  when  I  see  a  seedling  oak  in  the 
grass.  The  two  green  leaves  —  the  little  stem  so 
upright  and  confident,  and,  though  but  a  few  inches 
high,  already  so  completely  a  tree  —  are  in  them- 
selves beautiful.  Power,  endurance,  grandeur  are 
there ;  you  can  grasp  all  with  your  hand,  and  take 
a  ship  between  the  finger  and  thumb.  Time,  that 
sweeps  away  everything,  is  for  a  while  repelled  ;  the 
oak  will  grow  when  the  time  we  know  is  forgotten, 
and  when  felled  will  be  the  mainstay  and  safety  of 
a  generation  in  a  future  century.  That  the  plant 
should  start  among  the  grass,  to  be  severed  by  the 
scythe  or  crushed  by  cattle,  is  very  pitiful ;  I  cannot 
help  wishing  that  it  could  be  transplanted  and  pro- 
tected. Of  the  countless  acorns  that  drop  in  au- 
tumn not  one  in  a  million  is  permitted  to  become  a 
tree  —  a  vast  waste  of  strength  and  beauty.  From 
the  bushes  by  the  stile  on  the  left  hand,  which  I 
have  just  passed,  follows  the  long  whistle  of  a  night- 
ingale. His  nest  is  near ;  he  sings  night  and  day. 
Had  I  waited  on  the  stile,  in  a  few  minutes,  be- 
coming used  to  my  presence,  he  would  have  made 
the  hawthorn  vibrate,  so  powerful  is  his  voice  when 
heard  close  at  hand.  There  is  not  another  nightin- 
gale along  this  path  for  at  least  a  mile,  though  it 
-267- 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

crosses  meadows  and  runs  by  hedges  to  all  appear- 
ance equally  suitable;  but  nightingales  will  not  pass 
their  limits;  they  seem  to  have  a  marked-out  range 
as  strictly  defined  as  the  lines  of  a  geological  map. 
They  will  not  go  over  to  the  next  hedge  —  hardly 
into  the  field  on  one  side  of  a  favourite  spot,  nor  a 
yard  farther  along  the  mound.  Opposite  the  oak 
is  a  low  fence  of  serrated  green.  Just  projecting 
above  the  edge  of  a  brook,  fast-growing  flags  have 
thrust  up  their  bayonet-tips.  Beneath  their  stalks 
are  so  thick  in  the  shallow  places  that  a  pike  can 
scarcely  push  a  way  between  them.  Over  the 
brook  stand  some  high  maple  trees ;  to  their  thick 
foliage  wood-pigeons  come.  The  entrance  to  a 
coomb,  the  widening  mouth  of  a  valley,  is  beyond, 
with  copses  on  the  slopes. 

Again  the  plover's  notes ;  this  time  in  the  field 
immediately  behind ;  repeated,  too,  in  the  field  on 
the  right  hand.  One  comes  over,  and  as  he  flies 
he  jerks  a  wing  upwards  and  partly  turns  on  his 
side  in  the  air,  rolling  like  a  vessel  in  a  swell.  He 
seems  to  beat  the  air  sideways,  as  if  against  a  wall, 
not  downwards.  This  habit  makes  his  course  ap- 
pear so  uncertain  ;  he  may  go  there,  or  yonder,  or 
in  a  third  direction,  more  undecided  than  a  startled 
snipe.  Is  there  a  little  vanity  in  that  wanton  flight  ? 
Is  there  a  little  consciousness  of  the  spring-fresh- 
ened colours  of  his  plumage,  and  pride  in  the  dainty 
—  a68  — 


«^3g  HAUNTS    OF    THE 

touch  of  his  wings  on  the  sweet  wind  ?  His  love 
is  watching  his  wayward  course.  He  prolongs  it. 
He  has  but  a  few  yards  to  fly  to  reach  the  well- 
known  feeding-ground  by  the  brook  where  the  grass 
is  short ;  perhaps  it  has  been  eaten  off  by  sheep. 
It  is  a  straight  and  easy  line  as  a  starling  would  fly. 
The  plover  thinks  nothing  of  a  straight  line ;  he 
winds  first  with  the  course  of  the  hedge,  then  rises 
aslant,  uttering  his  cry,  wheels,  and  returns  ;  now 
this  way,  direct  at  me,  as  if  his  object  was  to  dis- 
play his  snowy  breast ;  suddenly  rising  aslant  again, 
he  wheels  once  more,  and  goes  right  away  from  his 
object  over  above  the  field  whence  he  came.  An- 
other moment  and  he  returns;  and  so  to  and  fro, 
and  round  and  round,  till  with  a  sidelong,  unex- 
pected sweep  he  alights  by  the  brook.  He  stands 
a  minute,  then  utters  his  cry,  and  runs  a  yard  or 
so  forward.  In  a  little  while  a  second  plover  ar- 
rives from  the  field  behind.  He  too  dances  a  maze 
in  the  air  before  he  settles.  Soon  a  third  joins 
them.  They  are  visible  at  that  spot  because  the 
grass  is  short,  elsewhere  they  would  be  hidden.  If 
one  of  these  rises  and  flies  to  and  fro,  almost  in- 
stantly another  follows,  and  then  it  is,  indeed,  a 
dance  before  they  alight.  The  wheeling,  maze- 
tracing,  devious  windings  continue  till  the  eye 
wearies  and  rests  with  pleasure  on  a  passing  butter- 
fly. These  birds  have  nests  in  the  meadows  adjoin- 
—  269  — 


THE    OPEN     AIR 


ing  ;  they  meet  here  as  a  common  feeding-ground. 
Presently  they  will  disperse,  each  returning  to  his 
mate  at  the  nest.  Half  an  hour  afterwards  they 
will  meet  once  mor^e,  either  here  or  on  the  wing. 

In  this  manner  they  spend  their  time  from  dawn 
through  the  flower-growing  day  till  dusk.  When 
the  sun  arises  over  the  hill  into  the  sky  already  blue, 
the  plovers  have  been  up  a  long  while.  All  the 
busy  morning  they  go  to  and  fro  —  the  busy  morn- 
ing, when  the  wood-pigeons  cannot  rest  in  the 
copses  on  the  coomb-side,  but  continually  fly  in 
and  out  ;  when  the  blackbirds  whistle  in  the  oaks, 
when  the  bluebells  gleam  with  purplish  lustre.  At 
noontide,  in  the  dry  heat,  it  is  pleasant  to  listen 
to  the  sound  of  water  moving  among  the  thousand 
thousand  grass-blades  of  the  mead.  The  flower- 
growing  day  lengthens  out  beyond  the  sunset,  and 
till  the  hedges  are  dim  the  lapwings  do  not  cease. 

Leaving  now  the  shade  of  the  oak,  I  follow  the 
path  into  the  meadow  on  the  right,  stepping  by 
the  way  over  a  streamlet,  which  diffuses  its  rapid 
current  broadcast  over  the  sward  till  it  collects  again 
and  pours  into  the  brook.  This  next  meadow  is 
somewhat  more  raised,  and  not  watered  j  the  grass 
is  high  and  full  of  buttercups.  Before  I  have  gone 
twenty  yards  a  lapwing  rises  out  in  the  field,  rushes 
towards  me  through  the  air,  and  circles  round  my 
head,  making  as  if  to  dash  at  me,  and  uttering 
—  170  — 


HAUNTS    OF    THE 

shrill  cries.  Immediately  another  comes  from  the 
mead  behind  the  oak  ;  then  a  third  from  over  the 
hedge,  and  all  those  that  have  been  feeding  by 
the  brook,  till  I  am  encircled  with  them.  They 
wheel  round,  dive,  rise  aslant,  cry,  and  wheel 
again,  always  close  over  me,  till  I  have  walked 
some  distance,  when,  one  by  one,  they  fall  oft, 
and,  still  uttering  threats,  retire.  There  is  a  nest 
in  this  meadow,  and,  although  it  is,  no  doubt,  a 
long  way  from  the  path,  my  presence  even  in  the 
field,  large  as  it  is,  is  resented.  The  couple  who 
imagine  their  possessions  threatened  are  quickly 
joined  by  their  friends,  and  there  is  no  rest  till  I 
have  left  their  treasures  far  behind. 


OUTSIDE    LONDON 


was  something  dark  on  the 
grass  under  an  elm  in  the  field  by 
the  barn.  It  rose  and  fell ;  and  we 
saw  that  it  was  a  wing  —  a  single 
black  wing,  striking  the  ground  instead  of  the 
air;  indeed,  it  seemed  to  come  out  of  the  earth 
itself,  the  body  of  the  bird  being  hidden  by  the 
grass.  This  black  wing  flapped  and  flapped,  but 
could  not  lift  itself  —  a  single  wing  of  course 
could  not  fly.  A  rook  had  dropped  out  of  the 
elm  and  was  lying  helpless  at  the  foot  of  the 
tree  —  it  is  a  favourite  tree  with  rooks ;  they 
build  in  it,  and  at  that  moment  there  were  twenty 
or  more  perched  aloft,  cawing  and  conversing  com- 
fortably, without  the  least  thought  of  their  dying 
comrade.  Not  one  of  all  the  number  descended 
to  see  what  was  the  matter,  nor  even  fluttered  half- 
way down.  This  elm  is  their  clubhouse,  where 
they  meet  every  afternoon  as  the  sun  gets  low 
to  discuss  the  scandals  of  the  dav,  before  retir- 
ing to  roost  in  the  avenues  and  tree-groups  of 
—  272  — 


OUTSIDE    LONDON 

the  park  adjacent.  While  we  looked,  a  peacock 
came  round  the  corner  of  the  barn ;  he  had  caught 
sight  of  the  flapping  wing,  and  approached  with  long 
deliberate  steps  and  outstretched  neck.  "  Ee-aw  ! 
Ee-aw!  What's  this?  What's  this?"  he  in- 
quired in  bird-language.  "  Ee-aw  !  Ee-aw  !  My 
friends,  see  here  !  "  Gravely,  and  step  by  step,  he 
came  nearer  and  nearer,  slowly,  and  not  without 
some  fear,  till  curiosity  had  brought  him  within 
a  yard.  In  a  moment  or  two  a  peahen  followed 
and  also  stretched  out  her  neck  —  the  two  long 
necks  pointing  at  the  black  flapping  wing.  A 
second  peacock  and  peahen  approached,  and  the 
four  great  birds  stretched  out  their  necks  towards 
the  dying  rook — a  "  crowner's  quest"  upon  the 
unfortunate  creature. 

If  any  one  had  been  at  hand  to  sketch  it,  the 
scene  would  have  been  very  grotesque,  and  not 
without  a  ludicrous  sadness.  There  was  the  tall 
elm  tinted  with  yellow,  the  black  rooks  high  above 
flying  in  and  out,  yellow  leaves  twirling  down,  the 
blue  peacocks  with  their  crests,  the  red  barn  be- 
hind, the  golden  sun  afar  shining  low  through  the 
trees  of  the  park,  the  brown  autumn  sward,  a  grey 
horse,  orange  maple  bushes.  There  was  the  quiet 
tone  of  the  coming  evening  —  the  early  evening 
of  October  —  such  an  evening  as  the  rook  had 
seen  many  a  time  from  the  tops  of  the  trees.  A 

18  —273  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

man  dies,  and  the  crowd  goes  on  passing  under  the 
window  along  the  street  without  a  thought.  The 
rook  died,  and  his  friends,  who  had  that  day  been 
with  him  in  the  oaks  feasting  on  acorns,  who  had 
been  with  him  in  the  fresh-turned  furrows,  born 
perhaps  in  the  same  nest,  utterly  forgot  him  be- 
fore he  was  dead.  With  a  great  common  caw  — 
a  common  shout  —  they  suddenly  left  the  tree  in 
a  bevy  and  flew  towards  the  park.  The  peacocks 
having  brought  in  their  verdict,  departed,  and  the 
dead  bird  was  left  alone. 

In  falling  out  of  the  elm,  the  rook  had  alighted 
partly  on  his  side  and  partly  on  his  back,  so  that 
he  could  only  flutter  one  wing,  the  other  being 
held  down  by  his  own  weight.  He  had  probably 
died  from  picking  up  poisoned  grain  somewhere,  or 
from  a  parasite.  The  weather  had  been  open,  and 
he  could  not  have  been  starved.  At  a  distance, 
the  rook's  plumage  appears  black ;  but  close  at 
hand  it  will  be  found  a  fine  blue-black,  glossy,  and 
handsome. 

These  peacocks  are  the  best  "  rain-makers  "  in 
the  place  ;  whenever  they  cry  much,  it  is  sure  to 
rain;  and  if  they  persist  day  after  day,  the  rain  is 
equally  continuous.  From  the  wall  by  the  barn, 
or  the  elm-branch  above,  their  cry  resounds  like 
the  wail  of  a  gigantic  cat,  and  is  audible  half  a 
mile  or  more.  In  the  summer,  I  found  one  of 
—  274  — 


OUTSIDE    LONDON 

them,  a  peacock  in  the  full  brilliance  of  his  colours, 
on  a  rail  in  the  hedge  under  a  spreading  maple 
bush.  His  rich-hued  neck,  the  bright  light  and 
shadow,  the  tall  green  meadow  grass,  brought 
together  the  finest  colours.  It  is  curious  that  a 
bird  so  distinctly  foreign,  plumed  for  the  Asiatic 
sun,  should  fit  so  well  with  English  meads.  His 
splendid  neck  immediately  pleases,  pleases  the  first 
time  it  is  seen,  and  on  the  fiftieth  occasion.  I  see 
these  every  day,  and  always  stop  to  look  at  them  ; 
the  colour  excites  the  sense  of  beauty  in  the  eye,  and 
the  shape  satisfies  the  idea  of  form.  The  undu- 
lating curve  of  the  neck  is  at  once  approved  by 
the  intuitive  judgment  of  the  mind,  and  it  is  a 
pleasure  to  the  mind  to  reiterate  that  judgment 
frequently.  It  needs  no  teaching  to  see  its  beauty 
—  the  feeling  comes  of  itself. 

How  different  with  the  turkey-cock  which  struts 
round  the  same  barn  !  A  fine  big  bird  he  is,  no 
doubt ;  but  there  is  no  intrinsic  beauty  about  him  ; 
on  the  contrary,  there  is  something  fantastic  in  his 
style  and  plumage.  He  has  a  way  of  drooping  his 
wings  as  if  they  were  armour-plates  to  shield  him 
from  a  shot.  The  ornaments  upon  his  head  and 
beak  are  in  the  most  awkward  position.  He  was 
put  together  in  a  dream,  of  uneven  and  odd  pieces 
that  live  and  move,  but  do  not  fit.  Ponderously 
gawky,  he  steps  as  if  the  world  was  his,  like  a 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

"  motley  "  crowned  in  sport.  He  is  good  eating, 
but  he  is  not  beautiful.  After  the  eye  has  been 
accustomed  to  him  for  some  time  —  after  you  have 
fed  him  every  day,  and  come  to  take  an  interest  in 
him —  after  you  have  seen  a  hundred  turkey-cocks, 
then  he  may  become  passable,  or,  if  you  have  the 
fancier's  taste,  exquisite.  Education  is  requisite 
first;  you  do  not  fall  in  love  at  first  sight.  The 
same  applies  to  fancy-pigeons,  and  indeed  many 
pet  animals,  as  pugs,  which  come  in  time  to  be 
animated  with  a  soul  in  some  people's  eyes.  Com- 
pare a  pug  with  a  greyhound  straining  at  the  leash. 
Instantly  he  is  slipped,  he  is  gone  as  a  wave  let 
loose.  His  flexible  back  bends  and  undulates, 
arches  and  unarches,  rises  and  falls  as  a  wave  rises 
and  rolls  on.  His  pliant  ribs  open;  his  whole 
frame  "  gives  "  and  stretches,  and  closing  again  in 
a  curve,  springs  forward.  Movement  is  as  easy  to 
him  as  to  the  wave,  which  melting,  is  re-moulded, 
and  sways  onward.  The  curve  of  the  greyhound 
is  not  only,  the  line  of  beauty,  but  a  line  which 
suggests  motion ;  and  it  is  the  idea  of  motion,  I 
think,  which  so  strongly  appeals  to  the  mind. 

We  are  often  scornfully  treated  as  a  nation  by 
people  who  write  about  art,  because  they  say  we 
have  no  taste ;  we  cannot  make  art  jugs  for  the 
mantelpiece,  crockery  for  the  bracket,  screens  for 
the  fire;  we  cannot  even  decorate  the  wall  of  a 
-276- 


OUTSIDE     LONDON 

room  as  it  should  be  done.  If  these  are  the  stand- 
ards by  which  a  sense  of  art  is  to  be  tried,  their 
scorn  is  to  a  certain  degree  just.  But  suppose  we 
try  another  standard.  Let  us  put  aside  the  alto- 
gether false  opinion  that  art  consists  alone  in  some- 
thing actually  made,  or  painted,  or  decorated,  in 
carvings,  colourings,  touches  of  brush  or  chisel. 
Let  us  look  at  our  lives.  I  mean  to  say  that  there 
is  no  nation  so  thoroughly  and  earnestly  artistic  as 
the  English  in  their  lives,  their  joys,  their  thoughts, 
their  hopes.  Who  loves  nature  like  an  English- 
man ?  Do  Italians  care  for  their  pale  skies  ?  I 
never  heard  so.  We  go  all  over  the  world  in 
search  of  beauty  —  to  the  keen  north,  to  the  cape 
whence  the  midnight  sun  is  visible,  to  the  extreme 
south,  to  the  interior  of  Africa,  gazing  at  the  vast 
expanse  of  Tanganyika  or  the  marvellous  falls  of 
the  Zambesi.  We  admire  the  temples  and  tombs 
and  palaces  of  India  j  we  speak  of  the  Alhambra 
of  Spain  almost  in  whispers,  so  deep  is  our  rever- 
ent admiration ;  we  visit  the  Parthenon.  There 
is  not  a  picture  or  a  statue  in  Europe  we  have  not 
sought.  We  climb  the  mountains  for  their  views 
and  the  sense  of  grandeur  they  inspire ;  we  roam 
over  the  wide  ocean  to  the  coral  islands  of  the  far 
Pacific  ;  we  go  deep  into  the  woods  of  the  West ; 
and  we  stand  dreamily  under  the  Pyramids  of  the 
East.  What  part  is  there  of  the  English  year 
—  277  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


which  has  not  been  sung  by  the  poets  ?  all  of 
whom  are  full  of  its  loveliness ;  and  our  greatest 
of  all,  Shakspeare,  carries,  as  it  were,  armfuls  of 
violets,  and  scatters  roses  and  golden  wheat  across 
his  pages,  which  *are  simply  fields  written  with 
human  life. 

This  is  art  indeed  —  art  in  the  mind  and  soul, 
infinitely  deeper,  surely,  than  the  construction  of 
crockery,  jugs  for  the  mantelpiece,  dados,  or  even 
of  paintings.  The  lover  of  nature  has  the  highest 
art  in  his  soul.  So,  I  think,  the  bluff  English 
farmer  who  takes  such  pride  and  delight  in  his  dogs 
and  horses,  is  a  much  greater  man  of  art  than  any 
Frenchman  preparing  with  cynical  dexterity  of 
hand  some  coloured  presentment  of  flashy  beauty 
for  the  salon.  The  English  girl  who  loves  her 
horse  —  and  English  girls  do  love  their  horses  most 
intensely  —  is  infinitely  more  artistic  in  that  fact 
than  the  cleverest  painter  on  enamel.  They  who 
love  nature  are  the  real  artists ;  the  "  artists  "  are 
copyists.  St.  John  the  naturalist,  when  exploring 
the  recesses  of  the  Highlands,  relates  how  he 
frequently  came  in  contact  with  men  living  in  the 
rude  Highland  way  —  forty  years  since,  no  educa- 
tion then  —  whom  at  first  you  would  suppose  to 
be  morose,  unobservant,  almost  stupid.  But  when 
they  found  out  that  their  visitor  would  stay  for 
hours  gazing  in  admiration  at  their  glens  and  moun- 


OUTSIDE     LONDON 

tains,  their  demeanour  changed.  Then  the  truth 
appeared  ;  they  were  fonder  than  he  was  himself  of 
the  beauties  of  their  hills  and  lakes ;  they  could  see 
the  art  there,  though  perhaps  they  had  never  seen  a 
picture  in  their  lives,  certainly  not  any  blue-and- 
white  crockery.  The  Frenchman  flings  his  ringers 
dexterously  over  the  canvas,  but  he  has  never  had 
that  in  his  heart  which  the  rude  Highlander  had. 

The  path  across  the  arable  field  was  covered  with 
a  design  of  birds'  feet.  The  reversed  broad  arrow 
of  the  fore-claws,  and  the  straight  line  of  the  hinder 
claw,  trailed  all  over  it  in  curving  lines.  In  the  dry 
dust,  their  feet  were  marked  as  clearly  as  a  seal  on 
wax  —  their  trails  wound  this  way  and  that,  and 
crossed  as  their  quick  eyes  had  led  them  to  turn  to 
find  something.  For  fifty  or  sixty  yards  the  path 
was  worked  with  an  inextricable  design ;  it  was  a 
pity  to  step  on  it  and  blot  out  the  traces  of  those 
little  feet.  Their  hearts  so  happy,  their  eyes  so 
observant,  the  earth  so  bountiful  to  them  with  its 
supply  of  food,  and  the  late  warmth  of  the  autumn 
sun  lighting  up  their  life.  They  know  and  feel  the 
different  loveliness  of  the  seasons  as  much  as  we 
do.  Every  one  must  have  noticed  their  joyous- 
ness  in  spring  ;  they  are  quiet,  but  so  very,  very 
busy  in  the  height  of  summer;  as  autumn  comes 
on  they  obviously  delight  in  the  occasional  hours 
of  warmth.  The  marks  of  their  little  feet  are  almost 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


sacred  —  a  joyous  life  has  been  there  —  do  not 
obliterate  it.  It  is  so  delightful  to  know  that  some- 
thing is  happy. 

The  hawthorn  hedge  that  goes  down  the  slope 
is  more  coloured  than  the  hedges  in  the  sheltered 
plain.  Yonder,  a  low  bush  on  the  brow  is  a  deep 
crimson;  the  hedge  as  it  descends  varies  from  brown 
to  yellow,  dotted  with  red  haws,  and  by  the  gateway 
has  another  spot  of  crimson.  The  lime  trees  turn 
yellow  from  top  to  bottom,  all  the  leaves  together  ; 
the  elms  by  one  or  two  branches  at  a  time.  A  lime 
tree  thus  entirely  coloured  stands  side  by  side  with 
an  elm,  their  boughs  intermingling;  the  elm  is  green 
except  a  line  at  the  outer  extremity  of  its  branches. 
A  red  light  as  of  fire  plays  in  the  beeches,  so  deep 
is  their  orange  tint  in  which  the  sunlight  is  caught. 
An  oak  is  dotted  with  buff,  while  yet  the  main  body 
of  the  foliage  is  untouched.  With  these  tints  and 
sunlight,  nature  gives  us  so  much  more  than  the  tree 
gives.  A  tree  is  nothing  but  a  tree  in  itself:  but 
with  light  and  shadow,  green  leaves  moving,  a  bird 
singing,  another  moving  to  and  fro  —  in  autumn 
with  colour — the  boughs  are  filled  with  imagination. 
There  then  seems  so  much  more  than  the  mere  tree; 
the  timber  of  the  trunk,  the  mere  sticks  of  the 
branches,  the  wooden  framework  is  animated  with 
a  life.  High  above,  a  lark  sings,  not  for  so  long  as 
in  spring  —  the  October  song  is  shorter  —  but  still 


OUTSIDE     LONDON 

he  sings.  If  you  love  colour,  plant  maple  ;  maple 
bushes  colour  a  whole  hedge.  Upon  the  bank  of 
a  pond,  the  brown  oak-leaves  which  have  fallen  are 
reflected  in  the  still  deep  water. 

It  is  from  the  hedges  that  taste  must  be  learned. 
A  garden  abuts  on  these  fields,  and  being  on  slightly 
rising  ground,  the  maple  bushes,  the  brown  and 
yellow  and  crimson  hawthorn,  the  limes  and  elms, 
are  all  visible  from  it;  yet  it  is  surrounded  by  stiff, 
straight  iron  railings,  unconcealed  even  by  the 
grasses,  which  are  carefully  cut  down  with  the  docks 
and  nettles,  that  do  their  best,  three  or  four  times 
in  the  summer,  to  hide  the  blank  iron.  Within 
these  iron  railings  stands  a  row  of  arbor  vitcs,  upright, 
and  stiff  likewise,  and  among  them  a  few  other  ever- 
greens ;  and  that  is  all  the  shelter  the  lawn  and 
flower-beds  have  from  the  east  wind,  blowing  for 
miles  over  open  country,  or  from  the  glowing  sun 
of  August.  This  garden  belongs  to  a  gentleman 
who  would  certainly  spare  no  moderate  expense  to 
improve  it,  and  yet  there  it  remains,  the  blankest, 
barest,  most  miserable-looking  square  of  ground  the 
eye  can  find;  the  only  piece  of  ground  from  which 
the  eye  turns  away  ;  for  even  the  potato-field  close 
by,  the  common  potato-field,  had  its  colour  in  bright 
poppies,  and  there  were  partridges  in  it,  and  at  the 
edges,  fine  growths  of  mallow  and  its  mauve  flowers. 
Wild  parsley,  still  green  in  the  shelter  of  the  hazel 
—  281  — 


THE    OPEN     AIR 

stoles,  is  there  now  on  the  bank,  a  thousand  times 
sweeter  to  the  eye  than  bare  iron  and  cold  ever- 
greens. Along  that  hedge,  the  white  bryony  wound 
itself  in  the  most  beautiful  manner,  completely 
covering  the  upper  part  of  the  thick  brambles,  a 
robe  thrown  over  the  bushes ;  its  deep  cut  leaves, 
its  countless  tendrils,  its  flowers,  and  presently  the 
berries,  giving  pleasure  every  time  one  passed  it. 
Indeed,  you  could  not  pass  without  stopping  to  look 
at  it,  and  wondering  if  any  one  ever  so  skilful,  even 
those  sure-handed  Florentines  Mr.  Ruskin  thinks 
so  much  of,  could  ever  draw  that  intertangled  mass 
of  lines.  Nor  could  you  easily  draw  the  leaves  and 
head  of  the  great  parsley  —  commonest  of  hedge- 
plants —  the  deep  indented  leaves,  and  the  shadow 
by  which  to  express  them.  There  was  work  enough 
in  that  short  piece  of  hedge  by  the  potato-field  for 
a  good  pencil  every  day  the  whole  summer.  And 
when  done,  you  would  not  have  been  satisfied  with 
it,  but  only  have  learned  how  complex  and  how 
thoughtful  and  far  reaching  Nature  is  in  the  simplest 
of  things.  But  with  a  straight-edge  or  ruler,  any  one 
could  draw  the  iron  railings  in  half  an  hour,  and  a 
surveyor's  pupil  could  make  them  look  as  well  as 
Millais  himself.  Stupidity  to  stupidity,  genius  to 
genius ;  any  hard  fist  can  manage  iron  railings ;  a 
hedge  is  a  task  for  the  greatest. 

Those,  therefore,  who  really  wish  their  gardens 
—  282  — 


OUTSIDE     LONDON 

or  grounds,  or  any  place,  beautiful,  must  get  that 
greatest  of  geniuses,  Nature,  to  help  them,  and  give 
their  artist  freedom  to  paint  to  fancy,  for  it  is 
Nature's  imagination  which  delights  us  —  as  I  tried 
to  explain  about  the  tree,  the  imagination,  and  not 
the  fact  of  the  timber  and  sticks.  For  those  white 
bryony  leaves  and  slender  spirals  and  exquisitely 
defined  flowers  are  full  of  imagination,  products  of  a 
sunny  dream,  and  tinted  so  tastefully  that  although 
they  are  green,  and  all  about  them  is  green  too,  yet 
the  plant  is  quite  distinct,  and  in  no  degree  confused 
or  lost  in  the  mass  of  leaves  under  and  by  it.  It 
stands  out,  and  yet  without  violent  contrast.  All 
these  beauties  of  form  and  colour  surround  the 
place,  and  try,  as  it  were,  to  march  in  and  take 
possession,  but  are  shut  out  by  straight  iron  railings. 
Wonderful  it  is  that  education  should  make  folk 
tasteless !  Such,  certainly,  seems  to  be  the  case  in 
a  great  measure,  and  not  in  our  own  country  only, 
for  those  who  know  Italy  tell  us  that  the  fine  old 
gardens  there,  dating  back  to  the  days  of  the  Medici, 
are  being  despoiled  of  ilex  and  made  formal  and 
straight.  Is  all  the  world  to  be  Versaillised  ? 

Scarcely  two  hundred  yards  from  these  cold  iron 
railings,  which  even  nettles  and  docks  would  hide 
if  they  could,  and  thistles  strive  to  conceal,  but  are 
not  permitted,  there  is  an  old  cottage  by  the  road- 
side. The  roof  is  of  old  tile,  once  red,  now  dull 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


from  weather  ;  the  walls  some  tone  of  yellow  ;  the 
folk  are  poor.  Against  it  there  grows  a  vigorous 
plant  of  jessamine,  a  still  finer  rose,  a  vine  covers 
the  lean-to  at  one  end,  and  tea-plant  the  corner  of 
the  wall  j  beside  these,  there  is  a  yellow-flowering 
plant,  the  name  of  which  I  forget  at  the  moment, 
also  trained  to  the  walls  ;  and  ivy.  Altogether, 
six  plants  grow  up  the  walls  of  the  cottage  ;  and 
over  the  wicket-gate  there  is  a  rude  arch  —  a 
framework  of  tall  sticks  —  from  which  droop  thick 
bunches  of  hops.  It  is  a  very  commonplace  sort 
of  cottage  ;  nothing  artistically  picturesque  about  it, 
no  effect  of  gable  or  timber-work  ;  it  stands  by  the 
roadside  in  the  most  commonplace  way,  and  yet  it 
pleases.  They  have  called  in  Nature,  that  great 
genius,  and  let  the  artist  have  his  own  way.  In 
Italy,  the  art-country,  they  cut  down  the  ilex  trees, 
and  get  the  surveyor's  pupil  with  straight-edge  and 
ruler  to  put  it  right  and  square  for  them.  Our 
over-educated  and  well-to-do  people  set  iron  rail- 
ings round  about  their  blank  pleasure-grounds, 
which  the  potato-field  laughs  at  in  bright  poppies  ; 
and  actually  one  who  has  some  fine  park-grounds 
has  lifted  up  on  high  a  mast  and  weather-vane  !  a 
thing  useful  on  the  sea-board  at  coastguard  stations 
for  signalling,  but  oh  !  how  repellent  and  straight 
and  stupid  among  clumps  of  graceful  elms  ! 

-284- 


%^&  OUTSIDE     LONDON 

II 

THE  dismal  pits  in  a  disused  brickfield,  unsightly 
square  holes  in  a  waste,  are  full  in  the  shallow 
places  of  an  aquatic  grass,  Reed  Canary  Grass,  I 
think,  which  at  this  time  of  mists  stretches  forth 
sharp-pointed  tongues  over  the  stagnant  water. 
These  sharp-pointed  leaf-tongues  are  all  on  one  side 
of  the  stalks,  so  that  the  most  advanced  project 
across  the  surface,  as  if  the  water  were  the  canvas, 
and  the  leaves  drawn  on  it.  For  water  seems 
always  to  rise  away  from  you  —  to  slope  slightly 
upwards ;  even  a  pool  has  that  appearance,  and 
therefore  anything  standing  in  it  is  drawn  on  it  as 
you  might  sketch  on  this  paper.  You  see  the 
water  beyond  and  above  the  top  of  fhe  plant,  and 
the  smooth  surface  gives  the  leaf  and  stalk  a  sharp, 
clear  definition.  But  the  mass  of  the  tall  grass 
crowds  together,  every  leaf  painted  yellow  by  the 
autumn,  a  thick  cover  at  the  pit-side.  This  tall 
grass  always  awakes  my  fancy,  its  shape  partly, 
partly  its  thickness,  perhaps ;  and  yet  these  feelings 
are  not  to  be  analysed.  I  like  to  look  at  it ;  I  like 
to  stand  or  move  among  it  on  the  bank  of  a  brook, 
to  feel  it  touch  and  rustle  against  me.  A  sense  of 
wildness  comes  with  its  touch,  and  I  feel  a  little  as 
I  might  feel  if  there  was  a  vast  forest  round  about 
As  a  few  strokes  from  a  loving  hand  will  soothe  a 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


weary  forehead,  so  the  gentle  pressure  of  the  wild 
grass  soothes  and  strokes  away  the  nervous  tension 
born  of  civilised  life. 

I  could  write.^  a  whole  history  of  it ;  the  time 
when  the  leaves  were  fresh  and  green,  and  the 
sedge-birds  frequented  it ;  the  time  when  the  moor- 
hen's young  crept  after  their  mother  through  its 
recesses ;  from  the  singing  of  the  cuckoo  by  the 
river,  till  now  brown  and  yellow  leaves  strew  the 
water.  They  strew,  too,  the  dry  brown  grass  of 
the  land,  thick  tuffets,  and  lie  even  among  the 
rushes,  blown  hither  from  the  distant  trees.  The 
wind  works  its  full  will  over  the  exposed  waste, 
and  drives  through  the  reed-grass,  scattering  the 
stalks  aside,  and  scarce  giving  them  time  to  spring 
together  again,  when  the  following  blast  a  second 
time  divides  them. 

A  cruder  piece  of  ground,  ruder  and  more  dismal 
in  its  unsightly  holes,  could  not  be  found ;  and  yet, 
because  of  the  reed-grass,  it  is  made  as  it  were  full 
of  thought.  I  wonder  the  painters,  of  whom  there 
are  so  many  nowadays,  armies  of  amateurs,  do  not 
sometimes  take  these  scraps  of  earth  and  render 
into  them  the  idea  which  fills  a  clod  with  beauty. 
In  one  such  dismal  pit  —  not  here  —  I  remember 
there  grew  a  great  quantity  of  bulrushes.  Another 
was  surrounded  with  such  masses  of  swamp-foliage 
that  it  reminded  those  who  saw  it  of  the  creeks  in 
—  286  — 


OUTSIDE     LONDON 

semi-tropical  countries.  But  somehow  they  do  not 
seem  to  see  these  things,  but  go  on  the  old  mill- 
round  of  scenery,  exhausted  many  a  year  since. 
They  do  not  see  them,  perhaps,  because  most 
of  those  who  have  educated  themselves  in  the 
technique  of  painting  are  city-bred,  and  can  never 
have  the  feeling  of  the  country,  however  fond  they 
may  be  of  it. 

In  those  fields  of  which  I  was  writing  the  other 
day,  I  found  an  artist  at  work  at  his  easel ;  and  a 
pleasant  nook  he  had  chosen.  His  brush  did  its 
work  with  a  steady  and  sure  stroke  that  indicated 
command  of  his  materials.  He  could  delineate 
whatever  he  selected  with  technical  skill  at  all 
events.  He  had  pitched  his  easel  where  two  hedges 
formed  an  angle,  and  one  of  them  was  full  of  oak- 
trees.  The  hedge  was  singularly  full  of  "  bits  "  — 
bryony,  tangles  of  grasses,  berries,  boughs  half- 
tinted  and  boughs  green,  hung  as  it  were  with 
pictures  like  the  wall  of  a  room.  Standing  as 
near  as  I  could  without  disturbing  him,  I  found 
that  the  subject  of  his  canvas  was  none  of  these. 
It  was  that  old  stale  and  dull  device  of  a  rustic 
bridge  spanning  a  shallow  stream  crossing  a  lane. 
Some  figure  stood  on  the  bridge  —  the  old,  old 
trick.  He  was  filling  up  the  hedge  of  the  lane  with 
trees  from  the  hedge,  and  they  were  cleverly  exe- 
cuted. But  why  drag  them  into  this  fusty  scheme, 
—  287  — 


i     THE    OPEN    AIR 

which  has  appeared  in  every  child's  sketch-book 
for  fifty  years  ?  Why  not  have  simply  painted  the 
beautiful  hedge  at  hand,  purely  and  simply,  a  hedge 
hung  with  pictures  for  any  one  to  copy  ?  The 
field  in  which  he  had  pitched  his  easel  is  full  of 
fine  trees  and  good  "  effects.  "  But  no;  we  must 
have  the  ancient  and  effete  old  story.  This  is  not 
all  the  artist's  fault,  because  he  must  in  many  cases 
paint  what  he  can  sell ;  and  if  his  public  will  only 
buy  effete  old  stories,  he  cannot  help  it.  Still,  I 
think  if  a  painter  did  paint  that  hedge  in  its  fulness 
of  beauty,  just  simply  as  it  stands  in  the  mellow 
autumn  light,  it  would  win  approval  of  the  best 
people,  and  that  ultimately  a  succession  of  such 
work  would  pay. 

The  clover  was  dying  down,  and  the  plough 
would  soon  be  among  it  —  the  earth  was  visible  in 
patches.  Out  in  one  of  these  bare  patches  there 
was  a  young  mouse,  so  chilled  by  the  past  night 
that  his  dull  senses  did  not  appear  conscious  of  my 
presence.  He  had  crept  out  on  the  bare  earth  evi- 
dently to  feel  the  warmth  of  the  sun,  almost  the 
last  hour  he  would  enjoy.  He  looked  about  for 
food,  but  found  none  ;  his  short  span  of  life  was 
drawing  to  a  close ;  even  when  at  last  he  saw  me, 
he  could  only  run  a  few  inches  under  cover  of  a 
dead  clover-plant.  Thousands  upon  thousands  of 
mice  perish  like  this  as  the  winter  draws  on,  born 
—  288  — 


OUTSIDE     LONDON 

too  late  in  the  year  to  grow  strong  enough  or  clever 
enough  to  prepare  a  store.  Other  kinds  of  mice 
perish  like  leaves  at  the  first  blast  of  cold  air. 
Though  but  a  mouse,  to  me  it  was  very  wretched 
to  see  the  chilled  creature,  so  benumbed  as  to  have 
almost  lost  its  sense  of  danger.  There  is  some- 
thing so  ghastly  in  birth  that  immediately  leads  to 
death ;  a  sentient  creature  born  only  to  wither. 
The  earth  offered  it  no  help,  nor  the  declining 
sun ;  all  things  organised  seem  to  depend  so  much 
on  circumstances.  Nothing  but  pity  can  be  felt 
for  thousands  upon  thousands  of  such  organisms. 
But  thus,  too,  many  a  miserable  human  being  has 
perished  in  the  great  Metropolis,  dying,  chilled  and 
benumbed,  of  starvation,  and  finding  the  hearts  of 
fellow-creatures  as  bare  and  cold  as  the  earth  of 
the  clover-field. 

In  these  fields  outside  London  the  flowers  are 
peculiarly  rich  in  colour.  The  common  mallow, 
whose  flower  is  usually  a  light  mauve,  has  here  a 
deep,  almost  purple  bloom  ;  the  bird's-foot  lotus  is 
a  deep  orange.  The  figwort,  which  is  generally 
two  or  three  feet  high,  stands  in  one  ditch  fully 
eight  feet,  and  the  stem  is  more  than  half  an  inch 
square.  A  fertile  soil  has  doubtless  something  to 
do  with  this  colour  and  vigour.  The  red  admiral 
butterflies,  too,  seemed  in  the  summer  more  bril- 
liant than  usual.  One  very  fine  one,  whose  broad 
19  —289  — 


THE     OPEN     AIR 

wings  stretched  out  like  fans,  looked  simply  splen- 
did floating  round  and  round  the  willows  which 
marked  the  margin  of  a  dry  pool.  His  blue  mark- 
ings were  really  b\ue  —  blue  velvet  —  his  red,  and 
the  white  stroke  shone  as  if  sunbeams  were  in 
his  wings.  I  wish  there  were  more  of  these  butter- 
flies ;  in  summer,  dry  summer,  when  the  flowers 
seem  gone  and  the  grass  is  not  so  dear  to  us,  and 
the  leaves  are  dull  with  heat,  a  little  colour  is  so 
pleasant.  To  me,  colour  is  a  sort  of  food  ;  every 
spot  of  colour  is  a  drop  of  wine  to  the  spirit.  I 
used  to  take  my  folding-stool  on  those  long,  heated 
days,  which  made  the  summer  of  1884  so  con- 
spicuous among  summers,  down  to  the  shadow  of 
a  row  of  elms  by  a  common  cabbage-field.  Their 
shadow  was  nearly  as  hot  as  the  open  sunshine ; 
the  dry  leaves  did  not  absorb  the  heat  that  entered 
them,  and  the  dry  hedge  and  dry  earth  poured  heat 
up  as  the  sun  poured  it  down.  Dry,  dead  leaves 
— •  dead  with  heat,  as  with  frost  —  strewed  the 
grass,  dry,  too,  and  withered  at  my  feet. 

But  among  the  cabbages,  which  were  very  small, 
there  grew  thousands  of  poppies,  fifty  times  more 
poppies  than  cabbage,  so  that  the  pale  green  of  the 
cabbage-leaves  was  hidden  by  the  scarlet  petals  fall- 
ing wide  open  to  the  dry  air.  There  was  a  broad 
band  of  scarlet  colour  all  along  the  side  of  the  field, 
and  it  was  this  which  brought  me  to  the  shade  of 
—  290  — 


OUTSIDE     LONDON 

those  particular  elms.  The  use  of  the  cabbages  was 
in  this  way  :  they  fetched  for  me  all  the  white  but- 
terflies of  the  neighbourhood,  and  they  fluttered, 
hundreds  and  hundreds  of  white  butterflies,  a  con- 
stant stream  and  flow  of  them  over  the  broad  band 
of  scarlet.  Humble-bees  came  too;  bur-bur-bur; 
and  the  buzz,  and  the  flutter  of  the  white  wings 
over  those  fixed  red  butterflies  the  poppies,  the 
flutter  and  sound  and  colour  pleased  me  in  the  dry 
heat  of  the  day.  Sometimes  I  set  my  camp-stool 
by  a  humble-bee's  nest.  I  like  to  see  and  hear 
them  go  in  and  out,  so  happy,  busy,  and  wild  ;  the 
humble-bee  is  a  favourite.  That  summer  their  nests 
were  very  plentiful ;  but  although  the  heat  might 
have  seemed  so  favourable  to  them,  the  flies  were 
not  at  all  numerous,  I  mean  out-of-doors.  Wasps, 
on  the  contrary,  flourished  to  an  extraordinary  de- 
gree. One  willow  tree  particularly  took  their  fancy; 
there  was  a  swarm  in  the  tree  for  weeks,  attracted 
by  some  secretion ;  the  boughs  and  leaves  were 
yellow  with  wasps.  But  it  seemed  curious  that 
flies  should  not  be  more  numerous  than  usual  ; 
they  are  dying  now  fast  enough,  except  a  few  of 
the  large  ones,  that  still  find  some  sugar  in  the 
flowers  of  the  ivy.  The  finest  show  of  ivy  flower 
is  among  some  yew  trees ;  the  dark  ivy  has  filled 
the  dark  yew  tree,  and  brought  out  its  pale  yellow- 
green  flowers  in  the  sombre  boughs.  Last  night,  a 
—  291  — 


THE    OPEN     AIR 

great  fly,  the  last  in  the  house,  bussed  into  my  can- 
dle. I  detest  flies,  but  I  was  sorry  for  his  scorched 
wings ;  the  fly  itself  hateful,  its  wings  so  beautifully 
made.  I  have  sometimes  picked  a  feather  from  the 
dirt  of  the  road  and  placed  it  on  the  grass.  It  is 
contrary  to  one's  feelings  to  see  so  beautiful  a  thing 
lying  in  the  mud.  Towards  my  window  now,  as 
I  write,  there  comes  suddenly  a  shower  of  yellow 
leaves,  wrested  out  by  main  force  from  the  high 
elms ;  the  blue  sky  behind  them,  they  droop  slowly, 
borne  onward,  twirling,  fluttering  towards  me  —  a 
cloud  of  autumn  butterflies. 

A  spring  rises  on  the  summit  of  a  green  brow 
that  overlooks  the  meadows  for  miles.  The  spot 
is  not  really  very  high,  still  it  is  the  highest  ground 
in  that  direction  for  a  long  distance,  and  it  seems 
singular  to  find  water  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  a  thing 
common  enough,  but  still  sufficiently  opposed  to 
general  impressions  to  appear  remarkable.  In  this 
shallow  water,  says  a  faint  story  —  far  off,  faint, 
and  uncertain,  like  the  murmur  of  a  distant  cas- 
cade —  two  ladies  and  some  soldiers  lost  their  lives. 
The  brow  is  defended  by  thick  bramble-bushes, 
which  bore  a  fine  crop  of  blackberries  that  au- 
tumn, to  the  delight  of  the  boys  ;  and  these  bushes 
partly  conceal  the  sharpness  of  the  short  descent. 
But  once  your  attention  is  drawn  to  it,  you  see  that 
it  has  all  the  appearance  of  having  been  artificially 
—  292  — 


OUTSIDE     LONDON 

sloped,  like  a  rampart,  or  rather  a  glacis.  The 
grass  is  green  and  the  sward  soft,  being  moistened 
by  the  spring,  except  in  one  spot,  where  the  grass 
is  burnt  up  under  the  heat  of  the  summer  sun, 
indicating  the  existence  of  foundations  beneath. 

There  is  a  beautiful  view  from  this  spot ;  but 
leaving  that  now,  and  wandering  on  among  the 
fields,  presently  you  may  find  a  meadow  of  pe- 
culiar shape,  extremely  long  and  narrow,  half  a 
mile  long,  perhaps ;  and  this  the  folk  will  tell 
you  was  the  King's  Drive,  or  ride.  Stories  there 
are,  too,  of  subterranean  passages  —  there  are  al- 
ways such  stories  in  the  neighbourhood  of  ancient 
buildings  —  I  remember  one,  said  to  be  three  miles 
long ;  it  led  to  an  abbey.  The  lane  leads  on,  bor- 
dered with  high  hawthorn  hedges,  and  occasionally 
a  stout  hawthorn  tree,  hardy  and  twisted  by  the 
strong  hands  of  the  passing  years  ;  thick  now  with 
red  haws,  and  the  haunt  of  the  redwings,  whose 
"  chuck-chuck "  is  heard  every  minute ;  but  the 
birds  themselves  always  perch  on  the  outer  side 
of  the  hedge.  They  are  not  far  ahead,  but  they 
always  keep  on  the  safe  side,  flying  on  twenty 
yards  or  so,  but  never  coming  to  my  side. 

The  little  pond,  which  in  summer  was  green  with 
weed,  is  now  yellow  with  the  fallen  hawthorn- 
leaves  ;  the  pond  is  choked  with  them.  The  lane 
has  been  slowly  descending ;  and  now,  on  looking 


THE    OPEN     AIR 

through  a  gateway,  an  ancient  building  stands  up 
on  the  hill,  sharply  defined  against  the  sky.  It  is 
the  banqueting  hall  of  a  palace  of  old  times,  in 
which  kings  and  .princes  once  sat  at  their  meat 
after  the  chase.  This  is  the  centre  of  those  dim 
stories  which  float  like  haze  over  the  meadows 
around.  Many  a  wild  red  stag  has  deen  carried 
thither  after  the  hunt,  and  many  a  wild  boar  slain 
in  the  glades  of  the  forest. 

The  acorns  are  dropping  now  as  they  dropped 
five  centuries  since,  in  the  days  when  the  wild 
boars  fed  so  greedily  upon  them;  the  oaks  are 
broadly  touched  with  brown ;  the  bramble  thickets 
in  which  the  boars  hid,  green,  but  strewn  with 
the  leaves  that  have  fallen  from  the  lofty  trees. 
Though  meadow,  arable,  and  hop-fields  hold  now 
the  place  of  the  forest,  a  goodly  remnant  remains, 
for  every  hedge  is  full  of  oak  and  elm  and  ash  ; 
maple  too,  and  the  lesser  bushes.  At  a  little  dis- 
tance, so  thick  are  the  trees,  the  whole  country 
appears  a  wood,  and  it  is  easy  to  see  what  a  forest 
it  must  have  been  Centuries  ago. 

The  Prince  leaving  the  grim  walls  of  the 
Tower  of  London  by  the  Water-gate,  and  drop- 
ping but  a  short  way  down  with  the  tide,  could 
mount  his  horse  on  the  opposite  bank,  and  reach 
his  palace  here,  in  the  midst  of  the  thickest  woods 
and  wildest  country,  in  half  an  hour.  Thence 
—  294  — 


OUTSIDE     LONDON  «^asf 

every  morning  setting  forth  upon  the  chase,  he 
could  pass  the  day  in  joyous  labours,  and  the 
evening  in  feasting,  still  within  call  —  almost 
within  sound  of  horn  —  of  the  Tower,  if  any 
weighty  matter  demanded  his  presence. 

In  our  time,  the  great  city  has  widened  out, 
and  comes  at  this  day  down  to  within  three 
miles  of  the  hunting-palace.  There  still  inter- 
venes a  narrow  space  between  the  last  house  of 
London  and  the  ancient  Forest  Hall,  a  space 
of  cornfield  and  meadow ;  the  last  house,  for  al- 
though not  nominally  London,  there  is  no  break 
of  continuity  in  the  bricks  and  mortar  thence  to 
London  Bridge.  London  is  within  a  stone's- 
throw,  as  it  were,  and  yet,  to  this  day  the  forest 
lingers,  and  it  is  country.  The  very  atmosphere 
is  different.  That  smoky  thickness  characteristic 
of  the  suburbs  ceases  as  you  ascend  the  gradual 
rise,  and  leave  the  outpost  of  bricks  and  mortar 
behind.  The  air  becomes  clear  and  strong,  till  on 
the  brow  by  the  spring  on  a  windy  day  it  is  al- 
most like  sea-air.  It  comes  over  the  trees,  over 
the  hills,  and  is  sweet  with  the  touch  of  grass  and 
leaf.  There  is  no  gas,  no  sulphurous  acid  in  that. 
As  the  Edwards  and  Henries  breathed  it  centuries 
since,  so  it  can  be  inhaled  now.  The  sun  that 
shone  on  the  red  deer  is  as  bright  now  as  then ; 
the  berries  are  thick  on  the  bushes ;  there  is  colour 
—  295  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


in  the  leaf.  The  forest  is  gone ;  but  the  spirit  of 
nature  stays,  and  can  be  found  by  those  who  search 
for  it.  Dearly  as  1  love  the  open  air,  I  cannot  re- 
gret the  mediaeval  .days.  I  do  not  wish  them  back 
again  ;  I  would  sooner  fight  in  the  foremost  ranks 
of  Time.  Nor  do  we  need  them,  for  the  spirit  of 
nature  stays,  and  will  always  be  here,  no  matter  to 
how  high  a  pinnacle  of  thought  the  human  mind 
may  attain ;  still  the  sweet  air,  and  the  hills,  and 
the  sea,  and  the  sun,  will  always  be  with  us. 


ON   THE   LONDON   ROAD 


road  comes  straight  from  London, 
which  is  but  a  very  short  distance  off, 
within  a  walk,  yet  the  village  it  passes 
is  thoroughly  a  village,  and  not  sub- 
urban, not  in  the  least  like  Sydenham,  or  Croydon, 
or  Balham,  or  Norwood,  as  perfect  a  village  in 
every  sense  as  if  it  stood  fifty  miles  in  the  country. 
There  is  one  long  street,  just  as  would  be  found  in 
the  far  west,  with  fields  at  each  end.  But  through 
this  long  street,  and  on  and  out  into  the  open,  is 
continually  pouring  the  human  living  undergrowth 
of  that  vast  forest  of  life,  London.  The  nonde- 
script inhabitants  of  the  thousand  and  one  name- 
less streets  of  the  unknown  east  are  great  travellers, 
and  come  forth  into  the  country  by  this  main 
desert  route.  For  what  end  ?  Why  this  tramping 
and  ceaseless  movement  ?  what  do  they  buy,  what 
do  they  sell,  how  do  they  live  ?  They  pass  through 
the  village  street  and  out  into  the  country  in  an 
endless  stream  on  the  shutter  on  wheels.  This  is 
the  true  London  vehicle,  the  characteristic  con- 
veyance, as  characteristic  as  the  Russian  droshky, 
_297  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

the  gondola  at  Venice,  or  the  caique  at  Stamboul. 
It  is  the  camel  of  the  London  desert  routes ;  routes 
which  run  right  through  civilisation,  but  of  which 
daily  paper  civilisation  is  ignorant.  People  who  can 
pay  for  a  daily  paper  are  so  far  above  it ;  a  daily  paper 
is  the  mark  of  the  man  who  is  in  civilisation. 

Take  an  old-fashioned  shutter  and  balance  it  on 
the  axle  of  a  pair  of  low  wheels,  and  you  have  the 
London  camel  in  principle.  To  complete  it  add 
shafts  in  front,  and  at  the  rear  run  a  low  freeboard, 
as  a  sailor  would  say,  along  the  edge,  that  the  cargo 
may  not  be  shaken  off.  All  the  skill  of  the  fashion- 
able brougham-builders  in  Long  Acre  could  not 
contrive  a  vehicle  which  would  meet  the  require- 
ments of  the  case  so  well  as  this.  On  the  desert 
routes  of  Palestine  a  donkey  becomes  romantic  ; 
in  a  costermonger's  barrow  he  is  only  an  ass  ;  the 
donkey  himself  does  n't  see  the  distinction.  He 
draws  a  good  deal  of  human  nature  about  in  these 
barrows,  and  perhaps  finds  it  very  much  the  same 
in  Surrey  and  Syria.  For  if  any  one  thinks  the 
familiar  barrow  is  merely  a  truck  for  the  conveyance 
of  cabbages  and  carrots,  and  for  the  exposure  of  the 
same  to  the  choice  of  housewives  in  Bermondsey, 
he  is  mistaken.  Far  beyond  that,  it  is  the  symbol, 
the  solid  expression,  of  life  itself  to  the  owner,  his 
family,  and  circle  of  connections,  more  so  than 
even  the  ship  to  the  sailor,  as  the  sailor,  no  matter 
-298- 


CE:    ON    THE    LONDON     ROAD 


how  he  may  love  his  ship,  longs  for  port,  and  the 
joys  of  the  shore,  but  the  barrow  folk  are  always 
at  sea  on  land.  Such  care  has  to  be  taken  of  the 
miserable  pony  or  the  shamefaced  jackass  ;  he  has 
to  be  groomed,  and  fed,  and  looked  to  in  his  shed, 
and  this  occupies  three  or  four  of  the  family  at  least, 
lads  and  strapping  young  girls,  night  and  morning. 
Besides  which,  the  circle  of  connections  look  in  to 
see  how  he  is  going  on,  and  to  hear  the  story  of 
the  day's  adventures,  and  what  is  proposed  for 
to-morrow.  Perhaps  one  is  invited  to  join  the  next 
excursion,  and  thinks  as  much  of  it  as  others  might 
do  of  an  invitation  for  a  cruise  in  the  Mediterranean. 
Any  one  who  watches  the  succession  of  barrows 
driving  along  through  the  village  out  into  the  fields 
of  Kent  can  easily  see  how  they  bear  upon  their 
wheels  the  fortunes  of  whole  families  and  of  their 
hangers-on.  Sometimes  there  is  a  load  of  pathos, 
of  which  the  race  of  the  ass  has  carried  a  good  deal 
in  all  ages.  More  often  it  is  a  heavy  lump  of  dull, 
evil,  and  exceedingly  stupid  cunning.  The  wild 
evil  of  the  Spanish  contrabandistas  seems  atoned  by 
that  wildness;  but  this  dull  wickedness  has  no  flush 
of  colour,  no  poppy  on  its  dirt  heaps. 

Over  one  barrow  the  sailors  had  fixed  up  a  tent  — 
canvas  stretched  from  corner  poles,  two  fellows  sat 
almost  on  the  shafts  outside  ;  they  were  well.  Under 
the  canvas  there  lay  a  young  fellow  white  and 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


emaciated,  whose  face  was  drawn  down  with  severe 
suffering  of  some  kind,  and  his  dark  eyes,  enlarged 
and  accentuated,  looked  as  if  touched  with  bella- 
donna. The  family  council  at  home  in  the  close 
and  fetid  court  had  resolved  themselves  into  a  med- 
ical board  and  ordered  him  to  the  sunny  Riviera. 
The  ship  having  been  fitted  up  for  the  invalid, 
away  they  sailed  for  the  south,  out  from  the  ends 
of  the  earth  of  London  into  the  ocean  of  green 
fields  and  trees,  thence  past  many  an  island  village, 
and  so  to  the  shores  where  the  Kentish  hops  were 
yellowing  fast  for  the  pickers.  There,  in  the  vin- 
tage days,  doubtless  he  found  solace,  and  possibly 
recovery.  To  catch  a  glimpse  of  that  dark  and 
cavernous  eye  under  the  shade  of  the  travelling  tent 
reminded  me  of  the  eyes  of  the  wounded  in  the 
ambulance-waggons  that  came  pouring  into  Brussels 
after  Sedan.  In  the  dusk  of  the  lovely  September 
evenings  —  it  was  a  beautiful  September,  the  lime- 
leaves  were  just  tinted  with  orange  —  the  waggons 
came  in  a  long  string,  the  wounded  and  maimed 
lying  in  them,  packed  carefully,  and  rolled  round, 
as  it  were,  with  wadding  to  save  them  from  the  jolts 
of  the  ruts  and  stones.  It  is  fifteen  years  ago,  and 
yet  I  can  still  distinctly  see  the  eyes  of  one  soldier 
looking  at  me  from  his  berth  in  the  waggon.  The 
glow  of  intense  pain  —  the  glow  of  long-continued 
agony  —  lit  them  up  as  coals  that  smouldering  are 


ON    THE    LONDON    ROAD 

suddenly  fanned.  Pain  brightens  the  eyes  as  much 
as  joy,  there  is  a  fire  in  the  brain  behind  it ;  it  is 
the  flame  in  the  mind  you  see,  and  not  the  eyeball. 
A  thought  that  might  easily  be  rendered  romantic, 
but  consider  how  these  poor  fellows  appeared  after- 
wards. Bevies  of  them  hopped  about  Brussels  in 
their  red-and-blue  uniforms,  some  on  crutches,  some 
with  two  sticks,  some  with  sleeves  pinned  to  their 
breasts,  looking  exactly  like  a-  company  of  dolls  a 
cruel  child  had  mutilated,  snapping  a  foot  off  here, 
tearing  out  a  leg  here,  and  battering  the  face  of  a 
third.  Little  men  most  of  them — the  bowl  of  a 
German  pipe  inverted  would  have  covered  them 
all,  within  which,  like  bees  in  a  hive,  they  might 
hum  "Te  Deum  Bismarckum  Laudamus."  But 
the  romantic  flame  in  the  eye  is  not  always  so 
beautiful  to  feel  as  to  read  about. 

Another  shutter  on  wheels  went  by  one  day  with 
one  little  pony  in  the  shafts,  and  a  second  harnessed 
in  some  way  at  the  side,  so  as  to  assist  in  pulling, 
but  without  bearing  any  share  of  the  load.  On  this 
shutter  eight  men  and  boys  balanced  themselves ; 
enough  for  the  Olympian  height  of  a  four-in-hand. 
Eight  fellows  perched  round  the  edge  like  ship- 
wrecked mariners,  clinging  to  one  plank.  They 
were  so  balanced  as  to  weigh  chiefly  on  the  axle,  yet 
in  front  of  such  a  mountain  of  men,  such  avast  bundle 
of  ragged  clothes,  the  ponies  appeared  like  rats. 
—  301  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

On  a  Sunday  morning  two  fellows  came  along  on 
their  shutter:  they  overtook  a  girl  who  was  walking 
on  the  pavement,  and  one  of  them,  more  sallow  and 
cheeky  than  his  companion,  began  to  talk  to  her. 
"That's  a  nice  nosegay,  now  —  give  us  a  rose. 
Come  and  ride  —  there  's  plenty  of  room.  Won't 
speak  ?  Now,  you  '11  tell  us  if  this  is  the  road  to 
London  Bridge."  She  nodded.  She  was  dressed  in 
full  satin  for  Sunday;  her  class  think  much  of  satin. 
She  was  leading  two  children,  one  in  each  hand, 
clean  and  well  dressed.  She  walked  more  lightly 
than  a  servant  does,  and  evidently  lived  at  home  ; 
she  did  not  go  to  service.  Tossing  her  head,  she 
looked  the  other  way,  for  you  see  the  fellow  on  the 
shutter  was  dirty,  not  "  dressed  "  at  all,  though  it 
was  Sunday,  poor  folks'  ball-day ;  a  dirty,  rough 
fellow,  with  a  short  clay  pipe  in  his  mouth,  a  chalky- 
white  face — apparently  from  low  dissipation  —  a 
disreputable  rascal, a  monstrously  impudent  "chap," 
a  true  London  mongrel.  He  "cheeked"  her;  she 
tossed  her  head,  and  looked  the  other  way.  But 
by-and-by  she  could  not  help  a  sly  glance  at  him, 
not  an  angry  glance  —  a  look  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  You  're  a  man,  anyway,  and  you  've  the  good  taste 
to  admire  me,  and  the  courage  to  speak  to  me ; 
you  're  dirty,  but  you're  a  man.  If  you  were  well 
dressed,  or  if  it  was  n't  Sunday,  or  if  it  was  dark, 
or  nobody  about,  I  would  n't  mind ;  I  'd  let  you 
—  30:1  — 


ON    THE    LONDON    ROAD 

'cheek'  me,  though  I  have  got  satin  on."  The 
fellow  "cheeked"  her  again,  told  her  she  had  a 
pretty  face,  "  cheeked "  her  right  and  left.  She 
looked  away,  but  half  smiled  ;  she  had  to  keep  up 
her  dignity,  she  did  not  feel  it.  She  would  have 
liked  to  have  joined  company  with  him.  His  leer 
grew  leerier  —  the  low,  cunning  leer,  so  peculiar  to 
the  London  mongrel,  that  seems  to  say,  "  I  am  so 
intensely  knowing;  I  am  so  very  much  all  there;" 
and  yet  the  leerer  always  remains  in  a  dirty  dress, 
always  smokes  the  coarsest  tobacco  in  the  nastiest 
of  pipes,  and  rides  on  a  barrow  to  the  end  of  his 
life.  For  his  leery  cunning  is  so  intensely  stupid 
that,  in  fact,  he  is  as  "  green  "  as  grass  :  his  leer 
and  his  foul  mouth  keep  him  in  the  gutter  to  his 
very  last  day.  How  much  more  successful  plain, 
simple  straightforwardness  would  be  !  The  pony 
went  on  a  little,  but  they  drew  rein  and  waited  for 
the  girl  again  ;  and  again  he  "  cheeked  "  her.  Still, 
she  looked  away,  but  she  did  not  make  any  attempt 
to  escape  by  the  side-path,  nor  show  resentment. 
No;  her  face  began  to  glow,  and  once  or  twice  she 
answered  him,  but  still  she  would  not  quite  join 
company.  If  only  it  had  not  been  Sunday  —  if  it 
had  been  a  lonely  road,  and  not  so  near  the  village, 
if  she  had  not  had  the  two  tell-tale  children  with  her 
—  she  would  have  been  very  good  friends  with  the 
dirty,  chalky,  ill-favoured,  and  ill-savoured  wretch. 
'  —303  — 


THE     OPEN     AIR 


At  the  parting  of  the  roads  each  went  different  ways, 
but  she  could  not  help  looking  back. 

He  was  a  thorough  specimen  of  the  leery  London 
mongrel.  That  hideous  leer  is  so  repulsive  —  one 
cannot  endure  it  —  but  it  is  so  common  ;  you  see 
it  on  the  faces  of  four-fifths  of  the  ceaseless  stream 
that  runs  out  from  the  ends  of  the  earth  of  London 
into  the  green  sea  of  the  country.  It  disfigures  the 
faces  of  the  carters  who  go  with  the  waggons  and 
other  vehicles  —  not  nomads,  but  men  in  steady 
employ;  it  defaces  —  absolutely  defaces  —  the  work- 
men who  go  forth  with  vans,  with  timber,  with 
carpenters'  work,  and  the  policeman  standing  at  the 
corners,  in  London  itself  particularly.  The  London 
leer  hangs  on  their  faces.  The  Mosaic  account  of 
the  Creation  is  discredited  in  these  days,  the  last 
revelation  took  place  at  Beckenham  ;  the  Becken- 
ham  revelation  is  superior  to  Mount  Sinai,  yet  the 
consideration  of  that  leer  might  suggest  the  idea  of 
a  fall  of  man  even  to  an  Amcebist.  The  horrible- 
ness  of  it  is  in  this  way,  it  hints  —  it  does  more 
than  hint,  it  conveys  the  leerer's  decided  opinion  — 
that  you,  whether  you  may  be  man  or  woman,  must 
necessarily  be  as  coarse  as  himself.  Especially  he 
wants  to  impress  that  view  upon  every  woman  who 
chances  to  cross  his  glance.  The  fist  of  Hercules 
is  needed  to  dash  it  out  of  his  face. 

—3°4— 


RED   ROOFS   OF   LONDON 


and  tile  roofs  have  a  curious  way 
of  tumbling  to  pieces  in  an  irregular 
and  eye-pleasing  manner.  The  roof- 
tree  bends,  bows  a  little  under  the 
weight,  curves  in,  and  yet  preserves  a  sharpness 
at  each  end.  The  Chinese  exaggerate  this  curve 
of  set  purpose.  Our  English  curve  is  softer,  being 
the  product  of  time,  which  always  works  in  true 
taste.  The  mystery  of  tile-laying  is  not  known  to 
every  one  ;  for  to  all  appearance  tiles  seem  to  be 
put  on  over  a  thin  bed  of  hay  or  hay-like  stuff. 
Lately  they  have  begun  to  use  some  sort  of  tar- 
paulin or  a  coarse  material  of  that  kind  ;  but  the 
old  tiles,  I  fancy,  were  comfortably  placed  on  a 
shake-down  of  hay.  When  one  slips  off,  little 
bits  of  hay  stick  up  ;  and  to  these  the  sparrows 
come,  removing  it  bit  by  bit  to  line  their  nests. 
If  they  can  find  a  gap  they  get  in,  and  a  fresh 
couple  is  started  in  life.  By-and-by  a  chimney  is 
overthrown  during  a  twist  of  the  wind,  and  half  a 
dozen  tiles  are  shattered.  Time  passes  ;  and  at 
last  the  tiler  arrives  to  mend  the  mischief.  His 


THE    OPEN    AIR      SE^ES^^ 


labour  leaves  a  light  red  patch  on  the  dark  dull 
red  of  the  breadth  about  it.  After  another  while 
the  leaks  along  the  ridge  need  plastering  :  mortar 
is  laid  on  to  stay  tjie  inroad  of  wet,  adding  a  dull 
white  and  forming  a  rough,  uncertain  undulation 
along  the  general  drooping  curve.  Yellow  edg- 
ings of  straw  project  under  the  eaves  —  the  work 
of  the  sparrows.  A  cluster  of  blue-tinted  pigeons 
gathers  about  the  chimney-side  ;  the  smoke  that 
comes  out  of  the  stack  droops  and  floats  side- 
ways, downwards,  as  if  the  chimney  enjoyed  the 
smother  as  a  man  enjoys  his  pipe.  Shattered  here 
and  cracked  yonder,  some  missing,  some  overlap- 
ping in  curves,  the  tiles  have  an  aspect  of  irregular 
existence.  They  are  not  fixed,  like  slates,  as  it 
were  for  ever  :  they  have  a  newness,  and  then  a 
middle-age,  and  a  time  of  decay  like  human 
beings. 

One  roof  is  not  much  ;  but  it  is  often  a  study. 
Put  a  thousand  roofs,  say  rather  thousands  of  red- 
tiled  roofs,  and  overlook  them  —  not  at  a  great  al- 
titude, but  at  a  pleasant  easy  angle  —  and  then  you 
have  the  groundwork  of  the  first  view  of  London 
over  Bermondsey  from  the  railway.  I  say  ground- 
work, because  the  roofs  seem  the  level  and  surface 
of  the  earth,  while  the  glimpses  of  streets  are 
glimpses  of  catacombs.  A  city  —  as  something 
to  look  at  —  depends  very  much  on  its  roofs.  If 
-306- 


RED    ROOFS    OF    LONDON 

a  city  have  no  character  in  its  roofs  it  stirs  neither 
heart  nor  thought.  These  red-tiled  roofs  of  Ber- 
mondsey,  stretching  away  mile  upon  mile,  and 
brought  up  at  the  extremity  with  thin  masts  ris- 
ing above  the  mist  —  these  red-tiled  roofs  have  a 
distinctiveness,  a  character ;  they  are  something  to 
think  about.  Nowhere  else  is  there  an  entrance  to 
a  city  like  this.  The  roads  by  which  you  approach 
them  give  you  distant  aspects  —  minarets,  perhaps, 
in  the  East,  domes  in  Italy  ;  but,  coming  nearer, 
the  highway  somehow  plunges  into  houses,  con- 
founding you  with  facades,  and  the  real  place  is 
hidden.  Here  from  the  railway  you  see  at  once 
the  vastness  of  London.  Roof-tree  behind  roof- 
tree,  ridge  behind  ridge,  is  drawn  along  in  suc- 
cession, line  behind  line  till  they  become  as  close 
together  as  the  test-lines  used  for  microscopes. 
Under  this  surface  of  roofs  what  a  profundity 
of  life  there  is !  Just  as  the  great  horses  in  the 
waggons  of  London  streets  convey  the  idea  of 
strength,  so  the  endlessness  of  the  view  conveys 
the  idea  of  a  mass  of  life.  Life  converges '  from 
every  quarter.  The  iron  way  has  many  ruts  :  the 
rails  are  its  ruts  ;  and  by  each  of  these  a  ceaseless 
stream  of  men  and  women  pours  over  the  tiled  roofs 
into  London.  They  come  from  the  populous  sub- 
urbs, from  far-away  towns  and  quiet  villages,  and 
from  over  sea. 

—  3°7  — 


:      THE    OPEN    AIR 

Glance  down  as  you  pass  into  the  excavations, 
the  streets,  beneath  the  red  surface  :  you  catch  a 
glimpse  of  men  and  women  hastening  to  and  fro, 
of  vehicles,  of  hors%es  struggling  with  mighty  loads, 
of  groups  at  the  corners,  and  fragments,  as  it  were, 
of  crowds.  Busy  life  everywhere  :  no  stillness,  no 
quiet,  no  repose.  Life  crowded  and  crushed  to- 
gether; life  that  has  hardly  room  to  live.  If  the 
train  slackens,  look  in  at  the  open  windows  of  the 
houses  level  with  the  line  —  they  are  always  open 
for  air,  smoke-laden  as  it  is  —  and  see  women  and 
children  with  scarce  room  to  move,  the  bed  and 
the  dining-table  in  the  same  apartment.  For  they 
dine  and  sleep  and  work  and  play  all  at  the  same 
time.  A  man  works  at  night  and  sleeps  by  day  : 
he  lies  yonder  as  calmly  as  if  in  a  quiet  country 
cottage.  The  children  have  no  place  to  play  in 
but  the  living-room  or  the  street.  It  is  not  squalor 
—  it  is  crowded  life.  The  people  are  pushed  to- 
gether by  the  necessities  of  existence.  These  peo- 
ple have  no  dislike  to  it  at  all :  it  is  right  enough 
to  them,  and  so  long  as  business  is  brisk  they  are 
happy.  The  man  who  lies  sleeping  so  calmly 
seems  to  me  to  indicate  the  immensity  of  the  life 
around  more  than  all  the  rest.  He  is  oblivious  of 
it  ail ;  it  does  not  make  him  nervous  or  wakeful ; 
he  is  so  used  to  it,  and  bred  to  it,  that  it  seems  to 
him  nothing.  When  he  is  awake  he  does  not  see 
—  308— 


RED     ROOFS    OF    LONDON 

it ;  now  he  sleeps  he  does  not  hear  it.  It  is  only 
in  great  woods  that  you  cannot  see  the  trees.  He 
is  like  a  leaf  in  a  forest  —  he  is  not  conscious  of  it. 
Long  hours  of  work  have  given  him  slumber  ;  and 
as  he  sleeps  he  seems  to  express  by  contrast  the 
immensity  and  endlessness  of  the  life  around  him. 
Sometimes  a  floating  haze,  now  thicker  here, 
and  now  lit  up  yonder  by  the  sunshine,  brings 
out  objects  more  distinctly  than  a  clear  atmos- 
phere. Away  there  tall  thin  masts  stand  out, 
rising  straight  up  above  the  red  roofs.  There  is 
a  faint  colour  on  them  ;  the  yards  are  dark  —  be- 
ing inclined,  they  do  not  reflect  the  light  at  an 
angle  to  reach  us.  Half-furled  canvas  droops  in 
folds,  now  swelling  a  little  as  the  wind  blows,  now 
heavily  sinking.  One  white  sail  is  set  and  gleams 
alone  among  the  dusky  folds  ;  for  the  canvas  at 
large  is  dark  with  coal-dust,  with  smoke,  with  the 
grime  that  settles  everywhere  where  men  labour 
with  bare  arms  and  chests.  Still  and  quiet  as 
trees  the  masts  rise  into  the  hazy  air ;  who  would 
think,  merely  to  look  at  them,  of  the  endless  labour 
they  mean  ?  The  labour  to  load,  and  the  labour  to 
unload  ;  the  labour  at  sea,  and  the  long  hours  of 
ploughing  the  waves  by  night ;  the  labour  at  the 
warehouses  ;  the  labour  in  the  fields,  the  mines, 
the  mountains  ;  the  labour  in  the  factories.  Ever 
and  again  the  sunshine  gleams  now  on  this  group 
—  3°9  — 


THE     OPEN     AIR 


of  masts,  now  on  that ;  for  they  stand  in  groups  as 
trees  often  grow,  a  thicket  here  and  a  thicket  yon- 
der. Labour  to  obtain  the  material,  labour  to  bring 
it  hither,  labour  to  force  it  into  shape  —  work  with- 
out end.  Masts  are  always  dreamy  to  look  at :  they 
speak  a  romance  of  the  sea  ;  of  unknown  lands  ; 
of  distant  forests  aglow  with  tropical  colours  and 
abounding  with  strange  forms  of  life.  In  the 
hearts  of  most  of  us  there  is  always  a  desire  for 
something  beyond  experience.  Hardly  any  of  us 
but  have  thought,  Some  day  I  will  go  on  a  long 
voyage  ;  but  the  years  go  by,  and  still  we  have  not 
sailed. 


—  310  — 


A  WET  NIGHT  IN  LONDON 


PAQUE  from  rain  drawn  in  slant 
streaks  by  wind  and  speed  across 
the  pane,  the  window  of  the  railway 
carriage  lets  nothing  be  seen  but 
stray  flashes  of  red  lights  —  the  signals  rapidly 
passed.  Wrapped  in  thick  overcoat,  collar  turned 
up  to  his  ears,  warm  gloves  on  his  hands,  and 
a  rug  across  his  knees,  the  traveller  may  well 
wonder  how  those  red  signals  and  the  points  are 
worked  out  in  the  storms  of  wintry  London. 
Rain  blown  in  gusts  through  the  misty  atmosphere, 
gas-  and  smoke-laden,  deepens  the  darkness ;  the 
howl  of  the  blast  humming  in  the  telegraph  wires, 
hurtling  round  the  chimney-pots  on  a  level  with 
the  line,  rushing  up  from  the  archways  ;  steam  from 
the  engines,  roar,  and  whistle,  shrieking  brakes, 
and  grinding  wheels  —  how  is  the  traffic  worked 
at  night  in  safety  over  the  inextricable  windings  of 
the  iron  roads  into  the  city  ? 

At  London  Bridge  the  door  is  opened  by  some 
one  who  gets  out,  and  the  cold  air  comes  in  ;  there 
is  a  rush  of  people  in  damp  coats,  with  dripping 
—  311  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 


umbrellas,  and  time  enough  to  notice  the  archae- 
ologically  interesting  wooden  beams  which  support 
the  roof  of  the  South-Eastern  station.  Antique 
beams  they  are,  good  old  Norman  oak,  such  as  you 
may  sometimes  find  in  very  old  country  churches 
that  have  not  been  restored,  such  as  yet  exist  in 
Westminster  Hall,  temp.  Rufus  or  Stephen,  or  so. 
Genuine  old  woodwork,  worth  your  while  to  go 
and  see.  Take  a  sketch-book  and  make  much  of 
the  ties  and  angles  and  bolts ;  ask  Whistler  or 
Macbeth,  or  some  one  to  etch  them,  get  the  Royal 
Antiquarian  Society  to  pay  a  visit  and  issue  a 
pamphlet ;  gaze  at  them  reverently  and  earnestly, 
for  they  are  not  easily  to  be  matched  in  London. 
Iron  girders  and  spacious  roofs  are  the  modern 
fashion ;  here  we  have  the  Middle  Ages  well 
preserved  —  slam!  the  door  is  banged-to,  onwards, 
over  the  invisible  river,  more  red  signals  and 
rain,  and  finally  the  terminus.  Five  hundred  well- 
dressed  and  civilised  savages,  wet,  cross,  weary,  all 
anxious  to  get  in  —  eager  for  home  and  dinner  ; 
five  hundred  stiffened  and  cramped  folk  equally 
eager  to  get  out  —  mix  on  a  narrow  platform,  with 
a  train  running  off  one  side,  and  a  detached  engine 
gliding  gently  after  it.  Push,  wriggle,  wind  in  and 
out,  bumps  from  portmanteaus,  and  so  at  last  out 
into  the  street. 

Now,  how  are  you  going  to  get  into  an  omnibus? 
—  312  — 


SE^-T^K  A    WET    NIGHT    IN 

The  street  is  "  up, "  the  traffic  confined  to  half  a 
narrow  thoroughfare,  the  little  space  available  at 
the  side  crowded  with  newsvenders  whose  contents 
bills  are  spotted  and  blotted  with  wet,  crowded,  too, 
with  young  girls,  bonnetless,  with  aprons  over  their 
heads,  whose  object  is  simply  to  do  nothing — just 
to  stand  in  the  rain  and  chaff;  the  newsvenders 
yell  their  news  in  your  ears,  then,  rinding  you 
don't  purchase,  they  "Yah!"  at  you;  an  aged 
crone  begs  you  to  buy  "  lights " ;  a  miserable 
young  crone,  with  pinched  face,  offers  artificial 
flowers  —  oh,  Naples  !  Rush  comes  the  rain,  and 
the  gas-lamps  are  dimmed ;  whoo-oo  comes  the 
wind  like  a  smack ;  cold  drops  get  in  the  ears  and 
eyes ;  clean  wristbands  are  splotched ;  greasy  mud 
splashed  over  shining  boots ;  some  one  knocks 
the  umbrella  round,  and  the  blast  all  but  turns 
it.  "  Wake  up  !  "  —  "  Now  then  —  stop  here  all 
night?" — "Gone  to  sleep?"  They  shout,  they 
curse,  they  put  their  hands  to  their  mouths  trumpet- 
wise  and  bellow  at  each  other,  these  cabbies,  van- 
men,  'busmen,  all  angry  at  the  block  in  the  narrow 
way.  The  'bus-driver,  with  London  stout,  and 
plenty  of  it,  polishing  his  round  cheeks  like  the 
brasswork  of  a  locomotive,  his  neck  well  wound 
and  buttressed  with  thick  comforter  and  collar, 
heedeth  not,  but  goes  on  his  round,  now  fast,  now 
slow,  always  stolid  and  rubicund,  the  rain  running 
—  313  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

harmlessly  from  him  as  if  he  were  oiled.  The 
conductor,  perched  like  the  showman's  monkey 
behind,  hops  and  twists,  and  turns  now  on  one  foot 
and  now  on  the  otjier  as  if  the  plate  were  red-hot ; 
now  holds  on  with  one  hand,  and  now  dexterously 
shifts  his  grasp ;  now  shouts  to  the  crowd  and 
waves  his  hands  towards  the  pavement,  and  again 
looks  round  the  edge  of  the  'bus  forwards  and  curses 
somebody  vehemently.  "Near  side  up!  Look  alive! 
Full  inside" — curses,  curses,  curses;  rain,  rain, 
rain,  and  no  one  can  tell  which  is  most  plentiful. 

The  cab-horse's  head  comes  nearly  inside  the 
'bus,  the  'bus-pole  threatens  to  poke  the  hansom 
in  front;  the  brougham  would  be  careful,  for  var- 
nish' sake,  but  is  wedged  and  must  take  its  chance; 
van-wheels  catch  omnibus  hubs ;  hurry,  scurry, 
whip,  and  drive;  slip,  slide,  bump,  rattle,  jar,  jostle, 
an  endless  stream  clattering  on,  in,  out,  and  round. 
On,  on  —  "Stanley,  on"  —  the  first  and  last 
words  of  cabby's  life ;  on,  on,  the  one  law  of  ex- 
istence in  a  London  street  —  drive  on,  stumble  or 
stand,  drive  on  —  strain  sinews,  crack,  splinter  — 
drive  on ;  what  a  sight  to  watch  as  you  wait  amid 
the  newsvenders  and  bonnetless  girls  for  the  'bus 
that  will  not  come!  Is  it  real?  It  seems  like  a 
dream,  those  nightmare  dreams  in  which  you  know 
that  you  must  run,  and  do  run,  and  yet  cannot  lift 
the  legs  that  are  heavy  as  lead,  with  the  demon  be- 


E^IT  A    WET    NIGHT    IN    LONDON^ 


hind  pursuing,  the  demon  of  Drive-on.  Move,  or 
cease  to  be  —  pass  out  of  Time  or  be  stirring 
quickly  ;  if  you  stand  you  must  suffer  even  here  on 
the  pavement,  splashed  with  greasy  mud,  shoved 
by  coarse  ruffianism,  however  good  your  intentions 
— just  dare  to  stand  still !  Ideas  here  for  moral- 
ising, but  I  can't  preach  with  the  roar  and  the  din 
and  the  wet  in  my  ears,  and  the  flickering  street 
lamps  flaring.  That 's  the 'bus  —  no;  the  tarpau- 
lin hangs  down  and  obscures  the  inscription  ;  yes. 
Hi !  No  heed  ;  how  could  you  be  so  confiding  as 
to  imagine  conductor  or  driver  would  deign  to  see 
a  signalling  passenger  ;  the  game  is  to  drive  on. 

A  gentleman  makes  a  desperate  rush  and  grabs 
the  handrail ;  his  foot  slips  on  the  asphalt  or  wood, 
which  is  like  oil,  he  slides,  his  hat  totters  ;  happily 
he  recovers  himself  and  gets  in.  In  the  block  the 
'bus  is  stayed  a  moment,  and  somehow  we  follow, 
and  are  landed — "somehow"  advisedly.  For  how 
do  we  get  into  a  'bus  ?  After  the  pavement,  even 
this  hard  seat  would  be  nearly  an  easy-chair,  were 
it  not  for  the  damp  smell  of  soaked  overcoats,  the 
ceaseless  rumble,  and  the  knockings  overhead  out- 
side. The  noise  is  immensely  worse  than  the 
shaking  or  the  steamy  atmosphere,  the  noise  ground 
into  the  ears,  and  wearying  the  mind  to  a  state 
of  drowsy  narcotism  —  you  become  chloroformed 
through  the  sense  of  hearing,  a  condition  of  dreary 
—  315  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

resignation  and  uncomfortable  ease.  The  illumi- 
nated shops  seem  to  pass  like  an  endless  window 
without  division  of  doors;  there  are  groups  of  people 
staring  in  at  them  in  spite  of  the  rain  ;  ill-clad,  half- 
starving  people  for  the  most  part ;  the  well-dressed 
hurry  onwards  ;  they  have  homes.  A  dull  feeling 
of  satisfaction  creeps  over  you  that  you  are  at  least 
in  shelter;  the  rumble  is  a  little  better  than  the 
wind  and  the  rain  and  the  puddles.  If  the  Greek 
sculptors  were  to  come  to  life  again  and  cut  us  out  in 
bas-relief  for  another  Parthenon,  they  would  have  to 
represent  us  shuffling  along,  heads  down  and  coat- 
tails  flying,  splash-splosh  —  a  nation  of  umbrellas. 

Under  a  broad  archway,  gaily  lighted,  the  broad 
and  happy  way  to  a  theatre,  there  is  a  small  crowd 
waiting,  and  among  them  two  ladies,  with  their 
backs  to  the  photographs  and  bills,  looking  out  into 
the  street.  They  stand  side  by  side,  evidently  quite 
oblivious  and  indifferent  to  the  motley  folk  about 
them,  chatting  and  laughing,  taking  the  wet  and 
windy  wretchedness  of  the  night  as  a  joke.  They 
are  both  plump  and  rosy-cheeked,  dark  eyes  gleam- 
ing and  red  lips  parted ;  both  decidedly  good-looking, 
much  too  rosy  and  full-faced,  too  well  fed  and 
comfortable  to  take  a  prize  from  Burne-Jones,  very 
worldly  people  in  the  roast-beef  sense.  Their  faces 
glow  in  the  bright  light  —  merry  sea  coal-fire  faces; 
they  have  never  turned  their  backs  on  the  good 
-316- 


WET    NIGHT    IN    LONDON 

things  of  this  life.  "  Never  shut  the  door  on  good 
fortune,"  as  Queen  Isabella  of  Spain  says.  Wind 
and  rain  may  howl  and  splash,  but  here  are  two 
faces  they  never  have  touched  —  rags  and  battered 
shoes  drift  along  the  pavement  —  no  wet  feet  or 
cold  necks  here.  Best  of  all,  they  glow  with  good 
spirits,  they  laugh,  they  chat  ;  they  are  full  of 
enjoyment,  clothed  thickly  with  health  and  happi- 
ness, as  their  shoulders  — good  wide  shoulders  —  are 
thicklv  wrapped  in  warmest  furs.  The  'bus  goes 
on,  and  they  are  lost  to  view ;  if  you  came  back 
in  an  hour  you  would  find  them  still  there  without 
doubt — still  jolly,  chatting,  smiling,  waiting  perhaps 
for  the  stage,  but  anyhow  far  removed,  like  the 
goddesses  on  Olympus,  from  the  splash  and  misery 
of  London.  Drive  on. 

The  head  of  a  great  grey  horse  in  a  van  drawn 
up  by  the  pavement,  the  head  and  neck  stand  out 
and  conquer  the  rain  and  misty  dinginess  by  sheer 
force  of  beauty,  sheer  strength  of  character.  He 
turns  his  head  —  his  neck  forms  a  fine  curve,  his 
face  is  full  of  intelligence,  in  spite  of  the  half-dim 
light  and  the  driving  rain,  of  the  thick  atmosphere, 
and  the  black  hollow  of  the  covered  van  behind,  his 
head  and  neck  stand  out,  just  as  in  old  portraits  the 
face  is  still  bright,  though  surrounded  with  crusted 
varnish.  It  would  be  a  glory  to  any  man  to  paint 
him.  Drive  on. 

—  317  — 


THE    OPEN    AIR 

How  strange  the  dim,  uncertain  faces  of  the 
crowd,  half  seen,  seem  in  the  hurry  and  rain;  faces 
held  downwards  and  muffled  by  the  darkness  —  not 
quite  human  in  th^ir  eager  and  intensely  concen- 
trated haste.  No  one  thinks  of  or  notices  another 
— on,  on — splash,  shove,  and  scramble;  an  intense 
selfishness,  so  selfish  as  not  to  be  selfish,  if  that  can 
be  understood,  so  absorbed  as  to  be  past  observing 
that  any  one  lives  but  themselves.  Human  beings 
reduced  to  mere  hurrying  machines,  worked  by  wind 
and  rain,  and  stern  necessities  of  life ;  driven  on  ; 
something  very  hard  and  unhappy  in  the  thought  of 
this.  They  seem  reduced  to  the  condition  of  the 
wooden  cabs  —  the  mere  vehicles  —  pulled  along 
by  the  irresistible  horse  Circumstance.  They  shut 
their  eyes  mentally,  wrap  themselves  in  the  overcoat 
of  indifference,  and  drive  on,  drive  on.  It  is  time 
to  get  out  at  last.  The  'bus  stops  on  one  side  of 
the  street,  and  you  have  to  cross  to  the  other.  Look 
up  and  down  —  lights  are  rushing  each  way,  but  for 
the  moment  none  are  close.  The  gas-lamps  shine 
in  the  puddles  of  thick  greasy  water,  and  by  their 
gleam  you  can  guide  yourself  round  them.  Cab 
coming !  Surely  he  will  give  way  a  little  and  not 
force  you  into  that  great  puddle;  no,  he  neither  sees, 
nor  cares.  Drive  on,  drive  on.  Quick!  the  shafts! 
Step  in  the  puddle  and  save  your  life  ! 


The  University  Press,  Cambridge,  U.  S.  A. 


